I take a sip from my beer can, Vonderlippe looks at me in the rearview mirror. No open containers in the car, he quotes in a dull voice, no open containers, no animals, no weapons, says Vonderlippe with the law behind him. Laws are in vogue these days, Lua barks. I can’t close the beer can, I say, at which point Vonderlippe says that he has to expel me from the vehicle anyway because of the dog. Okay, I say, nothing can be done about it, sometimes there’s no way back, once something’s open it’s open, at least when it comes to beer cans. In the middle of the BQE Vonderlippe puts on his hazard lights and pulls over. Couldn’t you at least let me out at the next exit? I ask, but Vonderlippe just shakes his head, this is no time or place for compromises, so Lua and I get out. Vonderlippe immediately drives off and leaves us with my beer can in the middle of a bridge over the roofs of Brooklyn, good luck with your foot, he yells out the window. Happy birthday, asshole, I shout, and want to throw the beer can after him, but these days overreactions lead to nothing but trouble. And I don’t have a nail in my foot anyway, I think, I have a splinter in my heart, my God, I’ll just walk.
Lately I’ve been avoiding walking to Enid’s, the way there leads past too much. On the bridge there’s no shoulder to speak of, the cars honk, a helicopter with a searchlight flies over me, but they’re not searching for people with beer cans, they’re searching for terrorists. My telephone rings, it’s Tuuli or Felix, I don’t answer. Since Monday I’ve stopped answering when Tuuli or Felix calls. Today is Saturday, on Monday I moved out. Because of Tuuli and Felix I’ve stopped walking to Enid’s, my old apartment on Lorimer Street stands in the way, the two of them are living there for now. They lugged his old leather suitcase up the stairs, his cameras and Tuuli’s books, Tuuli her pregnant belly. I liked the apartment, the three rooms and the leaky roof, the smell of the bakery, but eventually there’s only so much you can take. I left on friendly terms, at least it looks that way, the lease is still in my name, the telephone too. Now I live with Lua on a sofa owned by a sculptor who’s in Holland welding scrap metal into art in public space. When Tuuli or Felix calls, Svensson Home comes up on the display, but I don’t want to talk to Tuuli or Felix. We’re not alone, we’re three, we said, but we miscalculated.
Pressed against the plastic guardrail, Lua and I slowly make our way across the bridge and jump down the slope on the other side. In a few weeks the three of us will be four. The telephone rings again, I trip over some black plastic bags and spill beer on my pants, but I don’t answer. When I find a hole in the barbed wire for Lua, I cut my hand, and when I myself land on the sidewalk, I twist my ankle. I curse and Lua barks. Apparently I’m in Greenpoint. That’s good, that’s where I wanted to be. Under a streetlight two old men are sitting in wheelchairs and smoking, I ask them for the time and for cigarettes. The younger one says, almost midnight. I don’t smoke, but for weeks I’ve been pocketing one cigarette after another. I collect cigarettes. First you’re a nonsmoker, and then suddenly you’re collecting cigarettes. Tuuli will eventually want to start smoking again, and then I’ll be able to offer her some. I ask where Manhattan Avenue is and the older of the two old men says, the hospital’s that way, as he gives me the cigarette. Are you okay, young man? The other old man gives me a light. My hand is bleeding on the cigarette and on my shirt, Lua and I are limping, I have a beer can in my hand and a cigarette in my mouth, I inhale and inadvertently cough smoke into the face of the man in the wheelchair. No time for the hospital, I cough, we still have something to take care of.
By the time we get to Enid’s the beer can is empty, and I buy a Rolling Rock at the bar. What happened to you, asks the bartender. Nothing, I say, and as a matter of fact for a few weeks not much has been happening. Tuuli, who may be the love of my life, and my friend Felix are making phone calls on my dime, they’re probably fucking between calls, Felix is probably fucking Tuuli surrounded by my furniture, my books. Tuuli is seven months pregnant, Felix is taking care of Tuuli, I now take care of the dog. They always call me when they’ve finished fucking, Svensson Home appears on my display. But because eventually there’s only so much grieving you can take, tonight I’m wearing Tuuli’s purple T-shirt, that’s a first step away from the widower I am. I have to give things new meaning, I think, on the purple you can scarcely see the bloodstains. Can I quickly wash the blood off myself in the back? I ask, and the bartender says, sure, honey, but it actually looks really good on the purple. Of course, I think, wounds and scars make a man interesting, my blood is a fashion statement. The bartender is probably a fashion designer, and fashion is going crazy, so the bartender is going crazy. In the Enid’s storeroom I wash the blood off my fingers. What madness, I think, and watch myself in the fluorescent light over the mirror as I down the new beer in one swig. My telephone rings, Svensson Home. I don’t answer, I take another bottle of Rolling Rock out of a case. Tomorrow I’ll get a haircut, I think, holding my hand next to my face, the blood from the cut mingles with the water. I look myself in the eyes and ask myself how it could have gone this far. From the hole in my hand blood is running down my arm and dripping into the sink. Nena is playing in the bar, here in Enid’s they’re at the forefront of retro, time is passing much too quickly for me too, and as I watch myself burping and crying, there’s a woman with a camera standing behind me, she brushes my hair from my forehead, just a second, please, she says, can you stay like that?