Are you joking?
You’d be shocked, he says. She plays a good white-liberal game, no doubt, but underneath that she’s basically Pat Robertson. At least when it comes to the black family.
Okay. Okay. If that’s true. Even if that’s true. What’s the harm in telling her now? We could use her, among other things. She could help us prepare the ground.
Prepare the ground for what? Do we have a plan, Kelly? You haven’t even told me yet what you thought of the RIDS paper. I’m assuming that’s just being polite.
The paper’s a start. It gets you thinking along the right lines.
But?
Well, it wasn’t written for me.
That matters?
I lean across the table, dropping my elbow into a pool of harissa without noticing. Martin, I say, speaking in a hoarse whisper, look, I was there. I need an honest accounting. I can’t tell this story otherwise. I can’t make sense of it myself. You have to understand that.
He closes his eyes.
I went through this already, he says, his lower jaw easing forward, the lips drawing back and showing me a perfect row of white teeth, piranhalike. I went through this shit with Dr. Silpa. He put me through my paces. I edited that part of my life. You understand what that means, don’t you? I was sure you’d understand.
In that RIDS paper you’re asking people to look at you as a specimen.
I think I’m cool with that. I’ve thought about it. I’d rather keep it superficial. Fuck it, like the pregnant man, right? Let them think of me as a freak. The real story doesn’t lend itself to sound bites, and anyway, it’s unnecessary. We need to come up with something that fits in tight little paragraphs, something anyone would buy. Not my story, per se. An ur-story.
If I believed that I’d have quit a long time ago.
Look at you, he says, being all caped crusader. Woodward and Bernstein. Or, what is it, Orson Welles? You’re looking for my Rosebud?
Martin, I say, seeing stars, or what I imagine to be stars, little pinpricks swimming like amoebas in my peripheral vision — how can you say that? How can you fucking say that?
He holds up his hands, palms flat: a trainer ready to catch my punches.
Jesus, you’re sensitive, he says. I thought the whole Alan thing would be water under the bridge by now. I thought you’d have resolved it, one way or another.
I’m startled to find my eyes leaking tears.
What’s to be resolved? I ask. What, was there a note I didn’t get to read? Something you want to tell me, Martin?
Fine, he says. All right. You want the whole story? Forget that RIDS nonsense. That was just a feeler. I’ve got the whole thing for you in a box. On tape.
What do you mean, tape?
Tapes. DATs. Microcassettes. I wasn’t systematic about it. But it’s all there — nearly. Back when I thought I could write it up myself. I used to get up at five in the morning and go down to the rec room and just, I don’t know, narrate. For an hour or so at a time. Everything I told Silpa. And more.
Well, shit, I say, with a little laugh, I’m glad you’re telling me this now. While I still have access to a studio.
Why do you think I hired you in the first place? He slaps me on the shoulder. That’s a joke.
And then what? I just transcribe, and that’s it?
Of course not. You’re the journalist. You get to shadow me and interview me and all. For clarification. And for, you know, the personal stuff. There’s things I never recorded because they wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me.
And me. And maybe Alan.
Right. And so you’ll understand what I’m telling you: don’t take notes, all right? Just, you know, internalize it. If it doesn’t sound right I’ll tell you later, when I read the book. Just hang out.
Okay, I say, with an inward sigh. What kind of relationship is this? I suppose I’d like to ask. But how can you ask that question without asking, what kind of person is this? There’s a principle at work here, but I can’t wait for it to reveal itself, can I?
Okay, I say, okay, boss.
Boss? I’m your boss? Then we should make it official, shouldn’t we? He gets up and disappears into another room for a moment, and jogs back, holding a leather portfolio. How is it that you’ve let this go on so long? he asks, scribbling a check. Without a deposit or anything? Remind me to give you a lesson in negotiating sometime. This is just a retainer, okay? Let’s call it the first month’s pay. Tell me if it sounds fair to you.
I hold out my hand for the check as he passes it across the table, like a playing card, and read the number, $20,000, in one fluid motion, opening my wallet and slipping it in.
My advice is to open a new bank account, he says. Online. Do it as a wire transfer. Use only your initials. HSBC is good, or Credit Suisse. There are tax reasons, but we can talk about that later. I’ll call you tomorrow. We have to set up a schedule. And I’ve got to dig out those tapes.
My breathing feels unnaturally loud; or maybe the room has become quieter; or maybe we’ve been waiting all this time for a door to close down the hall, for Robin’s footsteps. What is this for, exactly? seems the obvious question. What am I worth to you? But the silence, an almost prayerful silence, closes in around us, and I say nothing.
Don’t worry, he says. His face has spread out into a grin, nostrils flaring, eyes jumping: money has come into the room, with its rustle, its electric crackle, and it excites him, shamelessly. It’s almost infectious. My wallet, thrust into my front pocket, glows like an orb, a radioactive pellet. This is only a taste, all right? he says. Trust me. You’ll get used to it. It’s all a matter of seeing things on a different scale.
11
The only reason to drive anywhere, Alan said, was because you’re in a hurry. Otherwise, why not walk? He hated the way I drove, not inordinately slow or careful, but sensible. Why be sensible? he wanted to know. If it’s two in the morning, and there’s no other cars in sight, why not cruise through the red light at North Charles and Northern Parkway, why not pretend, for a moment, that no red lights exist?
He had his own license for less than a month; he totaled the family Volvo in a way the mechanics said couldn’t be done, a Volvo with 270,000 miles they’d owned since 1979. Thus for more than a year — the entire touring life of L’Arc-en-Ciel — I drove him everywhere, even to school. It was that or take the bus, Cheryl said. She slipped me a twenty every week for gas money, and when I protested that I had a Texaco card, paid by my parents, she said, consider it hazard pay. Alan and I spent it on coffee, powdered donuts, and leathery slices of pizza from 7-Eleven; pizza jerky, Alan called it, and said it was his favorite food.
We argued about veganism — I was all for it, but he said it was a fool’s errand, making a fetish out of purity, as if it was possible to live like the Jains, ahimsically, in the twentieth century — and about whether one should start slow on the stereo, first thing in the morning, a little Nick Drake, maybe, or folky Neil Young, or wake up with a thunderous blast of Antischism or Bolt Thrower or Cannibal Corpse. We argued about the causes of the Civil War. We argued about whether Ian MacKaye was a better singer in Minor Threat or in Fugazi. We argued about the latest articles in The New York Times I swiped off my neighbor’s doorstep, and whether it was ethical for me to steal a newspaper, even if Mr. Macalester read only one out of three, and let them pile up in a scummy heap on the pavement. But we never argued about — never discussed — the terms, the content, the causes of our friendship. Adolescent boys hardly ever do. They pretend as if the people around them simply sprang out of the ground at random. We never said I love you, of course, though we surely did, and when we left town — for the weekend, for the summer, for rehab, for college — we never said goodbye. Not so much as a see you or talk to you then.