Love Creeps (16 page)

Alan stood up, relieved that he had an excuse not to take this class with his stalker and his stalker's stalker. “I'm sorry,” he said to the teacher, picking up his shoulder bag, “I made a mistake. I thought this was going to be a class about how to read real maps.”

“Oh no, please don't leave,” the instructor said. “I can teach you to read any kind of map you want. I have astrological maps, cooking maps, maps of the heart, body, and soul. Sexual maps, athletic maps, morality maps, antique maps.”

Alan shook his head. “I'm sorry, that's not at all what I had in mind when I signed up for this class.”

He was about to take a step toward the door when the teacher exclaimed, “Sit down! I was kidding.”

Alan was too stunned to sit back down, so the teacher told the whole class to get up, and announced that they would all be going into the subway and begin the course by learning how to read subway maps.

The teacher locked arms with Alan, to prevent him from slipping away, and led him toward the door. As Alan passed the teacher's desk, he glanced at the maps scattered on top of it. The titles of the maps were, “Map of the Mind,” “Map of the Heart,” “Athletic Map,” and “Sexual Map.”

Once they were down in the subway station, they stood on the platform facing a large map of New York City. The teacher, whose arm was still locked with Alan's, said to him loudly, “Why don't you tell us what train we should take to go to … let's say Union Square.”

Alan felt mildly insulted at the ease of it. He told them the Number 6, they all took it, and when they came out the exit the teacher asked him which way was north and which way was south. Alan didn't know, and when he guessed, he got it wrong.

Secretly on the verge of tears, but hiding it well, Alan said, “I'd rather we go back to reading the maps of the heart and of the mind.”

The professor seemed pleased and said, “Fine. What's the quickest way to make someone love you?”

“Not by stalking them, that's for sure,” Alan muttered, glaring at Lynn and Roland.

“To treat them well?” a student volunteered.

“What are you talking about? This is a map-reading class, not a psychology class. I need facts, concrete information,” the teacher said.

They were all stumped.

“Through the stomach?” Lynn ventured.

The teacher snorted and took the students back down into the subway. “We will now learn how to ask people for directions. Roland, you begin. Ask the first person who walks by how to get to Times Square.”

Roland categorically refused, saying he would never, under any circumstance, ask anyone for directions. “I always know where I'm going.”

“And where are you going now?” the teacher asked.

“I'm not going anywhere. I'm sitting on this bench.”

“That's exactly right. Your life is going nowhere, and when you do move, you are headed toward a life of misery. You gotta know where you wanna go.” He turned to Alan. “Let me ask you, Alan. Where do you want to go?”

Alan was thinking furiously, when the teacher added, “In life.”

Alan sighed with relief and said, “I want to have a well-balanced life and be completely free from stalking urges.”

The teacher nodded. “And you?” he addressed Lynn.

“I want to be loved by this man,” she said, pointing to Alan.

“And you?” the teacher asked Roland.

“I want to be loved by her,” Roland said, pointing to Lynn.

“Fine. I'll bring you maps next week that will show you the ways to those places.”

Roland grunted.

“Do you have a problem?” the teacher asked him.

“What kind of class is this?”

“THIS IS A MAP-READING CLASS!” the teacher screamed. “Goals are in places. I will give you maps to reach your goals. I will teach you how to read those maps. What more do you want from me? Isn't that enough?”

“That is a lot,” Roland said. “I just have a slight quibble with your notion that goals are in places.”

“In life,” the teacher explained, “you can reach your goals through various means, and one of many means is physically. There is a place for everything. Haven't you heard that before?”

“Yes, but generally for cleaning,” someone said.

“There is a place, and time, for everything. Unfortunately, in some of your cases, the time has passed. Once the time passes, you can still get to where you want to go by knowing where it is.”

“Hi, Lynn,” Lynn heard someone say, who she feared was not from the class. Lynn was sitting on the back of the bench, her feet on the bench, with the rest of the students. She turned in the direction of the voice. It was a very competitive gallery owner with her co-owner husband.

“Hi, Tracy, hi, John,” Lynn said wearily, not getting up.

“What are you doing?” Tracy asked.

Lynn looked at them without answering right away, just nodding her head slightly. “I'm with some friends, just hangin' out.”

“In the subway?” Tracy smiled. “Your gang?”

“Yup.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” the teacher said to the couple, “but you are interrupting my class.”

“Oh. What kind of class?”

“Map-reading,” the teacher said, bowing his head slightly.

The couple tried to hide only their amusement, not their surprise. “Sorry,” they said, and waved Lynn good-bye.

At the next class, the professor said he had found the maps they wanted.

On Lynn's map was an arrow pointing to a town in Westchester, with a handwritten street address and the words, “Intersection of Alan's love” written underneath.

On Roland's map was an arrow pointing to a town in Long Island and a handwritten name of a road and of a field called Simple Plain Field, followed by the words, “Deserted field of Lynn's love,” in parenthesis.

On Alan's map was an arrow pointing to a town in New Jersey with a handwritten street address followed by the words, “Restaurant of balance and freedom from stalking urges for Alan.”

The teacher said, “All you have to do is go to these places, and you will have those things you want.”

“What is this, some kind of magic?” Roland asked.

“No. Have you ever noticed in life how sometimes you get what you want unexpectedly, for no apparent reason, and long after you've given up hope of getting that thing you wanted? Well, that's usually because you've accidentally, unwittingly, stumbled upon the place where that thing can be gotten. For example, if you want a great job that has always eluded you, and let's say your getting that job happens to be located under a certain tree in Central Park, and one day you're strolling about, and by chance you happen to pass under that tree, well, you know what happens next.”

“You get the job?” a student asked.

“Yeah,” the teacher said. “I'm sure none of you believes me. And if you ever go to those places, and you don't get what you want, it doesn't mean this method is wrong, it just means the maps are wrong, or inaccurate. You can't always trust your sources.”

Despite their passionate desire to get what they wanted, neither Lynn, Alan, nor Roland believed in the maps one bit or had any intention of going to those locations.

Alan was upset that Lynn and Roland were admitted into his Deep-Water Confidence class. They swam extremely well. It wasn't fair they got in.

The previous semester, Alan had taken the class called Petrified People Don't Sink. The course catalog had described it as “A special class for those with a deep-seated fear of water. Talk about the cause of your fear and gently make the necessary adjustments and acclimation to the water.” When it had been Alan's turn to talk about the cause of his fear, he had said he was afraid of what might be in the deep, to which someone had answered, “More chlorine.”

Alan's dream was to eventually pass the Lifeguard Training Pretest, the description of which was: “500-yard continuous swim using front crawl, sidestroke, and breaststroke. Surface dive and retrieve a ten-pound brick, return to surface. Tread water for two minutes using legs only. Must be 15 years of age on or before course end.” Ahh. Self-improvement was wonderful, but passing the Lifeguard Training Pretest was a long way away. Alan still could barely swim, and he was starting to suspect that what kept people afloat was not doing the right strokes but having the right personality.

He followed the strokes very precisely, like people who followed cooking recipes more closely than was necessary. One, two, three. As he swam, he was much more concerned with moving upward than forward. The result was that he didn't advance very rapidly. He felt like a bug in a toilet and had the uneasy sensation someone was about to flush. He could feel himself sweating in the water. It didn't help that Roland was swimming next to him, taunting him, trying to make him seem ridiculous in Lynn's eyes, or that Lynn was swimming on his other side, staring at him lovingly, telling him to relax.

“You're sinking,” said Roland.

“No, you're not,” Lynn said. “I'll save you if you are.”

A Japanese woman in the class told him he might be a hammer, that in Japan people whose bones were so heavy that they had trouble staying afloat were called hammers. Alan loved that concept; he was undoubtedly a hammer. He hoped she would tell the swimming instructor.

“So, Alan, let me ask you a question,” Roland said.

Alan scowled, trying not to be distracted from the strokes.

“Why didn't you learn how to swim before now?”

“Just never did,” Alan said.

“Did you have some traumatic experience as a child, drifting in shark-infested waters for days, clinging to an inner tube?” Roland said, flipping onto his back and leisurely doing the backstroke alongside Alan. “I mean, you must have some pretty bad water memories, right?”

“Wrong. I have just one, and it's fond.”

“Really. What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Aw, come on, tell me.”

“No.” The passion with which he uttered that word made him momentarily lose track of where he was in the stroke pattern, and the water came up to his mouth, which unnerved him. He steadied himself.

“Come on!” Roland said, loudly.

“Shh,” Alan said.

“Tell me!” Roland said, again loudly.

“Damn you. I was in the ocean, lying on a floating raft, when I was five or six, and a woman helped me pet a mangofish. Are you happy?”

Roland's eyes opened wide. He switched to sidestroke, staring at Alan. “A mangofish.”

“Yes, it's a gentle fish that lets people pet it sometimes.”

“And did you pet the fish?”

“Yes.”

Alan, Roland, and Lynn reached the end of the pool, turned around, and began the next lap.

“What does a mangofish look like?” Roland asked.

“I didn't see it. It doesn't like to be seen.”

“But it likes to be petted. Hmm. What did it feel like?”

“The way you would imagine a fish to feel.”

“Which is?”

“Soft and slippery.”

“That woman didn't, by any chance, say, ‘This is a perfect day for mangofish,' did she?” Roland asked.

Alan blanched, and chills coursed through his body, causing him to lose track of the stroke pattern again. The water came up to his nose, and he flailed and doggie-paddled up to the edge. Lynn was grabbing him around the waist, pressing the length of her whole body against his. She did not promptly let go of him when he was holding on to the edge. He had to push her away and say, “That's enough, I'm fine.”

Alan turned to Roland. “There is no way you could have known that. How did you know she said that?”

“Lucky guess, I guess,” Roland said, treading water using legs only. Alan was annoyed because treading water using legs only was a feat that was attained only in the most difficult class, the class Alan was dreaming to be in one day, the Lifeguard Training Pretest class. Alan knew Roland knew that and was showing off.

Roland said, “But listen, maybe one day you should tell a therapist that little story. Even though it's a lovely memory, I'm sure a therapist would be able to whip up some explanation as to how it might be related to your avoidance of water.” Roland arched his back and did a backward somersault under the water.

When Roland came back up, Alan repeated, “How did you know the woman said that?”

Roland glanced at Lynn to see if she was impressed by his knowledge. His face sagged when he saw she was smiling at Alan beatifically.

“Relax,” he said to Alan. “I went to Harvard, remember? Nothing beats a good education.”

Alan blinked, awed by Roland's vast and mysterious knowledge that had endowed him with such acute psychological insight that he was able to speculate as to what someone had said thirty years ago.

“I suggest you read a short story called, ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish,' by J. D. Salinger,” Roland said. “You might gain some insight into why you never learned how to swim. Then again you might not.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Alan carefully let go of the edge and resumed the breaststroke. Lynn and Roland flanked him like pilot fish.

The instructor told the class that the next week they would be learning how to turn over front to back to front, and how to perform deep-water bobs, and that in three weeks they might try some beginner synchronized figures.

Two days later, Lynn was hosting an art opening at her gallery, looking at her watch. She knew Alan's yoga class finished at seven o'clock, and she wanted to be there when it ended, so that she could stalk him for a few hours.

At ten to seven, she walked over to Patricia, who was standing with a glass of white wine, talking to two artists. Lynn told her she was leaving.

“You can't leave now,” Patricia said. “Look who just walked in.”

It was Aaron Golding, the senior curator of contemporary painting at the Met.