I make fun of her sometimes (though not often to her face), but the truth is, she’s my map to the treasure; a day without her and I start to think maybe there’s no treasure at all.
Lizzie always says, You really are a special case. By that she means I’m more messed up than most. Every time she says it, I feel like somebody put pride and anxiety in a one-shot glass and said, Drink. Now, at the bar, she says it again and adds, But I have a new idea. I want to say, Can we talk about it another time? but I ask, What is it? Lizzie says, We have to do something drastic and dramatic because nothing we do seems to stick with you. I say, I’m listening. Lizzie says, You can skip work next Tuesday, right? Because I’m thinking Monday night will be good for this, so you’ll need the morning after for sleep. I say, Sure. Lizzie says, I’ll need you to go over everything you own, absolutely everything. I’ll tell you what to look for, she says, but I’ll need you to be thorough, ruthless, brave. Can you do that? she asks, and before I have a chance to answer, she says, Tell me if you can’t, I need to know now if you’re not up to it. There is urgency in her voice, which makes me uneasy, but I still say what I know she wants to hear. What choice do I have, Lizzie? Her eyes nod at me.
* * *
At the end of the night I walk home; the bar is exactly six blocks north of my apartment and south of Lizzie’s. I think about the man in the gray sweater, I think about going back. He was still there when we left, sitting on his stool and drinking slowly, deep in thought like he was contemplating different ways to stop some war. Like possibly he was briefing the president in the morning. It appeals to me, this sense of duty in a man.
I think how sex with him would feel. I think how his face would look in that one moment that matters, the moment that relieves my guilt of its weight, the moment I wait for. I always look them in the eye throughout, so as not to miss my moment, and that can be tricky, because they mostly try to avoid the intimacy of eye contact. I wait, and then suddenly it’s there, passing through them like a wave. In that moment, their entire lives turn to air — their mothers, babying them too much in the early years, or leaving on the eve of their thirteenth birthday to reunite with a salesman in Kentucky, or fighting cancer for years, being so damn brave; their fathers, the memory of snow caves, of absence, of Camel Lights; their wives, that moment when their eyes first locked through Halloween masks, and this morning, the way she turned her face away in bed, so many gentle moments, so many small heartbreaks; and their children, those scary hours at the hospital, and the first time the baby girl said Daddy, or Home, or Clementine, and they realized the true meaning of the word devotion. It all disappears. What’s left is something from years ago, an idea of the men they wanted to be, long abandoned. For one brief moment, they go back in time, they make different choices, they are different men. And my body is the time machine that takes them there.
* * *
I keep walking, I don’t go back to the bar, simply because right now I am able not to. I want to feel something like accomplishment, the conquering of weakness, but I don’t. I feel numb. It’s colder than it should be this time of year, and I’m drunk and can’t wait to get home. I am thinking Get home get home get home, but when I get home I don’t feel like going in. I imagine opening the door, turning the light on; I imagine my blue pajamas, my empty bed. I can actually see it and feel it, because that’s something Lizzie and I have been working on for a long time: Visualization. Through the help of Visualization, I become convinced that I don’t want to go into my apartment. I call Lizzie from the hallway, and I whisper because I don’t want to wake any neighbors up, and if they’re already up, I don’t want them to hear me; I wouldn’t think much of someone in my situation. Lizzie says, I don’t see what the problem is. I say I just don’t want to go in. She says, But why? I say I just don’t, it feels wrong, I know I’ll be sad. Lizzie is quiet for a few seconds, and then she says, Are you going to fuck somebody now, is that it? It’s harsh, and I can hear the three shots of vanilla Stoli in her words. I say, I’m not going to fuck anyone tonight, that’s the whole point. Then I think I hear someone in the background, but I don’t ask her about it.
After we hang up the phone I’m still unable to go in, and the walls are dancing, so I sit down. From the floor, things are looking up. The hallway feels steadier, and I think, This is not so bad. I stay there, on the welcome mat by the door to my apartment, and I fall asleep. When I wake up a few hours later, there is daylight, and opening my front door seems easy. I walk in and feel nothing except the need to shower, the need to change clothes, the need to go to work. What was my problem last night? I think in the shower. I was drunk, I think, and I giggle to myself and the water giggles back.
3. The Bonfire
Monday night, Lizzie honks the horn for me to come downstairs. The car is Oz’s. Oz is a guy who used to be addicted to cucumbers — used to eat a few dozen every day, throw up, and start all over. Lizzie helped him, and now they’re fuck buddies. Once, Lizzie and I went to Six Flags (stages six and seven in the Brinn Method, Getting in Touch with the Child Within and Experiencing Danger in a Safe Environment), and there was some kind of problem with one of the roller coasters. At the top of the man-made mountain we sat, waiting, and talked about Oz, because he and Lizzie had just had sex for the first time the night before. I said something mean or cynical about his addiction, and Lizzie got very upset. She said, I’m not supposed to discuss this with you, but Jesus, can’t you figure it out? I mean, clearly it’s a phallic thing, and I’ll just say this: he had a very rough childhood. I felt stupid. You of all people, she said, and I really hoped she wouldn’t finish the thought. Then she said, All you addicts are the same; you all think you’re better, your addictions are sophisticated and complicated and other people’s are beneath you. There was something in Lizzie’s voice then that made it easy to imagine her one day saying, I don’t think I can help you anymore. I’ve never said a bad word about Oz since.
* * *
I put my bags in the backseat and get into the car. It smells funky, but I don’t say anything because it’s Oz’s car. Instead, I say, Why did you honk, you could have buzzed or called. I know the answer: Lizzie likes to honk. She knows I know the answer, so she just honks again and smiles at me like a wink. I grab her honking hand, but not too strong, and say, Shhhh. Lizzie glances at the side mirror and starts to pull out. She asks, Do you have everything? and I nod but she can’t see me so she asks again. Yes, I say; I have everything.
* * *
Lizzie puts a crumpled green Post-it in my hand and asks, What exit does it say? Lizzie can write tomes on Post-its in her tiny, compressed handwriting, but I’ve always been good at deciphering it. I read: Take the Belt Parkway to exit 6. Head south on Cropsey Avenue to West 17th Street. KeySpan Park and the Parachute Jump will be in front of you on Surf Avenue. Metered parking is available along most streets. Fuckers, Lizzie says, they don’t want you to park close to the beach; but we’ll see. Who, the evil powers of Yahoo Maps? I say. No, it’s from their website, Lizzie says; there’s an official Coney Island website. Well why’d you copy it if you weren’t going to follow the instructions anyway, I ask; for some reason this annoys me, and I fantasize about nudging Lizzie’s shoulder hard so she’ll lose control of the car. Maybe I’ll grab the wheel and save us. Maybe we’ll swerve, fast and sharp like on a Six Flags ride.