“That’s a lovely sentiment.”
“And who knows? Maybe this process can tell you what’s wrong with you.”
“I’m punishing, judgmental, and indecisive. Oh, and crotchety. Or had you not heard?”
“I mean you as in anyone. Everyone has had that inkling, right? Like for some reason you are just not meant to pair. And on your good days, you think, hey, it’s because my heart is too big to get through anyone’s tunnel. And on your bad days, you think it’s because my heart is this tiny petrified piece of shit and it passes through other people like a kidney stone. Like it’s either nothing or it causes excruciating pain.”
“Zach, I’ve never heard you be this emotional.”
“Depression is an emotion.”
“Maybe you just need to get laid.”
“So says the town bicycle. Can I come with you tomorrow night?”
He brushed wall dust and cat hair from his pants. This had not occurred to me, the idea of bringing a friend.
“I worry it might throw the whole thing off-balance. Not that you couldn’t just be in the neighborhood. It’s a free country. And not that I care—”
“Oh, I get it,” he said. “You want to be alone with this last guy. What if he sucks?”
“He will. Everyone kind of sucks. It’s human nature.”
Zach nodded. Now I was speaking his language. He touched the faded red splotch on the sofa from when Vadis had sprayed wine on it, walking his fingers along the spots.
“And what are you going to do about that?” he asked, nodding at a Polaroid of me and Boots stuck to the fridge.
It was from last Halloween. Vadis had gotten the camera for parties. Zach is in the background, looking gravely bored, wearing all black, sunglasses, and an “I ? Venice” T-shirt. He was a Venetian blind. Vadis said the costume was insensitive, which I agreed with until she tacked on that it was “like blackface for the disabled,” which I encouraged her never to say again ever. Boots and I are dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Peanut. Mrs. Peanut is distinguishable from Mr. Peanut because of her synthetic eyelashes and her peanut-can purse.
“Have you told him?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m still getting over the fact that Vadis is involved. She’s too smart for this.”
I snorted.
“She’s your friend,” he said.
“Yeah, well. With friends like these—”
“Come on, I really want to see the inside of Clive’s cult.”
“Zach. I can barely see it. There’s no easy way in. I get escorted everywhere. There’s an alleged meditation room I’ve never seen, and Clive is extra shady about it. I don’t know the code to the door. Neither of us is in any shape to dangle the other from a rooftop.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said, patting his belly.
When men wanted to cry “fat,” they touched their stomachs. When women wanted to cry “fat,” they touched their thighs, arms, waists, butts, cheeks, and chins. At least we liked variety. No one could take that away from us.
“Just tell me which shul,” he said.
“I don’t know the name. Isn’t that funny? I don’t know the name.”
“But you know where it is.”
“It’s not, like, open. And you’re not going to break into a synagogue. You’re Jewish.”
“It’s not a synagogue. Not anymore. And you’re Jewish, too.”
“Yeah, but you’re Jewish Jewish. You read Aramaic; I have heard of Aramaic. Barely. Fifty-fifty language/perfume, you know?”
“Clive fucking Glenn is getting wealthier off your back and you’re not even curious as to how?”
“I was curious,” I said, rubbing my eyes, “really curious. Now I’m just, I don’t know, benumbed.”
* * *
My landline rarely rang at work. Our desk phones were vestigial tails, demoted to the world’s most cumbersome in-house walkie-talkie system. It was therefore jarring to hear that doctor’s-office brrrring before 10 a.m., before half the Radio New York staff had meandered in. My first thought was: Fire. But it was only the security desk, announcing that “a Zach Goldberg” was here to see me.
“Just the one?”
“Should we send him up?”
“Sure, thanks.”
The security guard moved the speaker away from his mouth and asked Zach to show his photo ID. I could faintly hear some kind of back-and-forth.
“He doesn’t have any identification.”