He said, We’ll get there, Bamb, we’ll get there. When? I asked. How about next year, he said, 2012? Pretending to set a date was his favorite joke these days.
I decided to try a different approach. Phil, I said, look at us. We have all the money in the world. Isn’t that enough? It’s enough, Phil, don’t you see that?
I assumed that he’d feign agreement, let me relax; we both knew that he wasn’t just making a profit, but also holding on as tight as he could, sitting on top of the whole still world without leaving our balcony. But he just sat there with a smile on his face that I’d never seen before, and seemed immersed in some conversation I couldn’t hear. Finally, he got up, put the champagne glass down, helped a few crumbs slide down his pants. He looked down at me, and sternness took over the smile. I never understood women, he said, so smart and so stupid at the same time. I was waiting for him to explain, and then realized that he wouldn’t, because he wasn’t talking to me, not really. He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, Money? Money? For fuck’s sake, Bambi, we’re living here in your crummy little apartment and you still think it’s about the money?
He took a deep breath that said my stupidity caused him great pain. His disappointment hung heavy in the air, and I knew this was the moment when Phil had given up on me for good. I wanted to drink all the champagne until it made me throw up, then drink some more. Money, Bambi, he said like he was the president of a great nation and I was the ignorant masses he was preaching to, is always, always, a means to an end. Remember that if you remember nothing else. And with that he turned his back to me and walked into the living room. I noticed there were crumbs on his ass that he must not have been aware of, remnants of the crackers we ate. This would have bothered him, I thought. Phil is a very tidy man.
MAYBE IN A DIFFERENT TIME
I’d gone thirty-six years without donating blood, had made a name for myself in my community for being the only man who refused to donate even on leap years, when they pay more. Our town boasts the largest bloodbank in North America, and since the war, which started before anyone can remember, most folks around either work at the bank or donate for a living. My father took me to watch him donate when I was four. I didn’t faint or cry like my friend Jordan F, like so many kids on their first viewings. I stood still and silent, narrowing my eyes at the nurse. When she was done, I asked for the tube. It’s my dad’s blood, I said, not yours. The nurse smiled, said, That’s not how it works, honey pie. My father seemed frustrated; he’d explained the whole thing before we left the house. I squinted at them for a few more seconds, turned around and left the room.
* * *
In my twenties I had fire in my bones, something pushing me to teach this town some lessons. I can safely say the only people around who liked me were my sister and Jordan F. Everyone else thought I was a hippie or a bum, because why else would I not work in blood? But I never considered leaving. In my dreams, I was running for council and everyone was calling it a slam dunk.
* * *
Making a fortune seemed a good first step, so I tried my best. It’s the money that wins the war at the end, not the blood, but no one around me seemed to know it. I made some good investments, learned to spot the investments that would later invest on their own. I can’t say that I made a fortune, but for a while I was doing okay. Several times, I invited Jordan F to join in when I had a good lead, but he always coughed and said Thanks, I’m good. The truth was, my minor success made no difference; the town still looked down on me. Jordan F always stood by my side, but he managed to do that without risking his reputation. His job made it easy — people here respect the bloodtruck drivers, because at the end of the day everyone’s hard work is in their hands, and because they are privy to more classified information than most. As Jordan F says, You can’t drive with your eyes closed. But if Jordan F started investing with me, people’s perception of him would change. And I guess I wasn’t making enough money to make that worthwhile.
* * *
When times got rough, they got rough fast. I made some mistakes, then made things worse trying to correct them. It was a crisis of speed and faith, you could say — I was always a slow investor, always took hours staring at stats, and now that there was no time to do that, I found myself giving up and leaving, again and again, when all I had to do was believe that tomorrow’s numbers would look better than today’s. In short, I failed.
* * *
I needed cash, but for obvious reasons I tried to downplay my decision to donate. I didn’t want everyone in town talking about it, speculating on the reasons. I went during the night shift, to one of the small stations on the outskirts of town, on a day when Jordan F was away delivering. I expected word would get out if I kept at it, of course; I just wanted to slow things down. What I didn’t expect — couldn’t have expected — was the rush that it gave me. No one had ever mentioned this lightness, all your worries losing their weight and the air getting thin like you’re at the top of a mountain, close to the sky. Take more, take everything, I told the nurse, a woman whose braids I used to tug on years ago. Lie down, stop jumping, she kept saying, you’ve always been so restless.
* * *
I stayed up the whole night after that, awake with excitement. Suddenly I couldn’t wait for Jordan F to come back, so I could share the news. The next day in the afternoon, I was walking down Benevolence Ave., which gets the worst of the town’s traffic on weekdays. Through the sequence of moving-trucks and buses, a wounded man cried in an attempt to get my attention: Sir, sir, would you please lend me a hand? He was bleeding so bad it was hard to know which part of him was missing. The man was an out-of-towner, or at least I didn’t know him. Our town always attracted that sort of thing — people assumed if we were donating blood, we’d be open to donating organs, too. Jordan F, anyone else in town, would have kept on walking. I crossed the street to get to him. He was begging — Please, man, please, please. His body contorted as if he were trying to draw something in the air with his knees. I looked at him and felt a tickle of the lightness from the previous night. I thought, He did say lend. And if he doesn’t actually give it back, well, I’ll still have the other one.
* * *
A few hours later I walked over to Boon’s Bar a one-armed man, to meet Jordan F. My left pocket felt empty — I had the habit of twirling my fingers in there — but it was the kind of emptiness that didn’t seek to be filled. When I stepped in, Jordan F noticed the change right away. And right away he was being judgmental. I said, Let me point out that I’m perfectly functional with one arm; most days I forget I used to have two. Jordan F snorted. Most days? he said; it’s only been a few hours. It was one of those truths whose falseness you couldn’t prove. I don’t care to discuss this further, I said. The conversation I wanted to have felt out of reach.
All right, Jordan F said, but what’s going on with you? There’s a rumor going around that you started donating. He said this with half a chuckle and all of a sudden I wished he’d go on a very long delivery. I did, I said and flipped him my donor stamp. Jordan F’s eyes opened wide, and his mouth angled toward his chin. Why? he said, stunned. I needed the money, I said, my words quiet. I knew I’d been happy a couple minutes ago, but couldn’t remember why. I thought that’s what you always wanted, I said. Yeah, no, Jordan F said, I don’t know. We sat there like that for some time, ignoring our beers. When we were younger, before Jordan F started driving blood, people used to tease us, call us faggots. Real friendship between two men is not something you see in this town. I never minded it much, but it used to bug the hell out of Jordan F. It’s been so many years, but I found myself thinking about it now, sitting at Boon’s with him.