Lit Riffs (4 page)

Meanwhile he sat in his apartment, thinking about her when he wasn’t dwelling on his own problems or mentally combining the two. He was still determined to find her, but she seemed to have disappeared from the bars. Nobody seemed to have a clue as to her whereabouts. One day he thought,
I wonder if she is dead
, and a chill ran through him. He was still writing songs, but none of them were about her. He wasn’t ready yet—or he was afraid. The songs weren’t about anything in particular. He knew he was stagnant, knew he had to do something with his life and his music, but had no idea what.

Months passed. One day he turned a corner in the middle of London and almost bumped smack into her. They were both startled, then both laughed in spite of themselves. It had been too long for high dramatics of any sort. “Well, well,” she said calmly, a bit too calmly she thought. “Of all the ghosts in this town. And just how are you? Still fucking women just so you can shove them face-first in the dirt five minutes after?”

She was surprised at the lack of malice in the way she said the words. Somehow they felt almost obligatory; somehow, she knew, she wanted to talk to him. About what, she had no idea.

He blushed. That was when she knew why she wanted to talk to him, and why she felt just the slightest bit foolish for making the little speech she’d just concluded. “I … ,” he began, and stopped. Still an adolescent. They looked at each other. “Let’s go get a cup of tea,” she said.

They sat down in a restaurant around the corner and stared at each other a while longer. To her, it felt downright comical. Still, she knew just how much she was enjoying the power she was now holding, the feeling of totally controlling the situation with a man for once in her life. She didn’t like the idea of letting that go. At least she knew she didn’t want to right this minute.
But what the hell did that mean?
She had no desire to hurt him; if anything, she felt playful. But that, too, seemed a kind of unnecessary mockery, in spite of her memories. She wanted to talk to him, she repeated to herself. If only she knew where to begin.

He began. “I was a terrible fool. Please forgive me.”

“Stop.” She was beginning to get irritated already.

“No, no, you’ve got to listen. Please. I was wrong and I hurt you. And then I compounded it later.”

“That you did.”

“Well, at least I can tell you that I know all that now.”

“Congratulations.” She was being too cool, too terse, it was some form of overcompensation, she knew it. What she didn’t know was why. Which meant that suddenly she was no longer in control. And given
this
state, that left a real mess: two cartoon characters, trying on balloons. No, that was forced cynicism. She didn’t know what she felt. One thing she did know: she had been on automatic pilot for what seemed like an eternity. This was like two babies stumbling across a playpen toward each other more than anything else, but even
that
was more than anything she’d felt with anyone else in so long that … she was fascinated, pulled in, and she didn’t know why. She kept telling herself the whole thing was stupid—she should just get up and leave.

“I’ve thought about you a lot.”

She didn’t say anything. She had thought of him as little as possible.

“I’ve also been trying to find you for months. Not to ask any kind of absolution, but … you made me understand certain things about myself. When you weren’t even around. I guess that sounds selfish, but …”

“Yeah, especially considering humiliating me was your ticket to Total Enlightenment.” She grew impatient again. “Look, I know you’re young. But I’ve just been through too many assholes in my time. Maybe to someone else, especially a girl your own age, it would have meant less. Maybe to some it would have meant nothing. People have that attitude a lot these days. I—”

“I don’t either. Maybe what you’re really saying is that I have nothing to offer you. Aside from whatever you might have to offer me.”

“Well, I could give you pointers on the etiquette of how not to treat women like shit, for starters. The next person you fuck might appreciate that.”

“What can I say? You’ve got me over a barrel. I blew it. I can’t even apologize anymore. All I can say is one thing: Will you go to dinner and the movies with me this Friday night?”

“Why on earth should I do that?”

“I honestly don’t know. I might not if I was you. I’m just asking. You can say no.”

“Dinner and the movies—how charmingly
teenage
.” She knew her sarcasm was flat, stalling for time.

So did he, finally. “So stop playing around: What’s your answer?”

She looked at him. “Yes.”

Now neither held the cards. “What is this?” he asked simply and sincerely.

“I swear,” she sighed, “I haven’t got the
slightest
idea. If I did, I’d be glad to tell you.”

“Maybe it’s good. This way.”

“What’s good?”

“I don’t know.”

“This conversation is absurd. The tea’s gotten cold. I have to go, I’m late getting back from my coffee break.” She gathered her things and stood up. “See you Friday night. You know where I live. I’m generally home after six o’clock; other than that, I’m not particular about time. Just don’t come barging in, in the middle of the night, ever. I’ve been through that one once too often. And
especially
don’t come barging in drunk, ever. Which reminds me, I’m trying not to drink now. Just thought I’d let you know I don’t mind going to bars, but don’t expect me to get wasted on anything with you.”

“Okay.”

She walked out. He tasted his tea. It
was
cold. She’d left him the check. He paid, left a tip, and walked out.

She had trouble concentrating on her work. It was just that it was so
boring
. So, ultimately, were Bach and Mozart, at least when you had to hear them inside your head. Here she was, a woman in her forties, with a Friday night date with some rock ‘n’ roll teenager. She didn’t even like rock ‘n’ roll.

Friday night he showed up at exactly 6:10 p.m. “What kept you?” she joked.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. So, what’s on the agenda? What’s the movie? What kind of exotic meal you got planned for us? A foreign restaurant, I hope? And will I be expected to fuck you in return at the end of the evening?”

He didn’t say anything; he looked hurt. Instantly she regretted the last sentence that had come out of her mouth. “Look, all I meant is that
I’m bored out of my skull. I work in a morgue
. You’re a teenager, they’re supposed to be up on all the latest kicks. Well,” she tried to joke, “
Show me some kicks. I’m a desperate woman
.”

He didn’t know she was joking. “You work in a morgue? Really?”

“No. I wish I did. It’s a morgue for dead papers—writs, subpoenas, wills, old lawsuits, on and on and on. Dead bodies would be a definite improvement.”

“Oh.”

He was nervous. So was she, but in a different way. Clearly, each wanted something different out of the other. Somehow they just kept missing. She decided to try a more direct approach. The most direct.

“What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer for a couple of minutes. “I’m not really sure, except I think somehow it has something to do withdon’t laugh now—
soul
.”

“Who’s laughing? I’m flattered. But then, I’ll take just about anything I can get these days. Soul. Why me?”

“That’s a lot harder to answer. Maybe because … you’re the sort of person who would joke about your job by describing it as a morgue, or wish it was instead, or maybe it’s just that … I think you want something from all of this—meaning all this around us, life, work, whatever—that you’re not getting. And you’re not gonna stop struggling. Or”—he laughed—“at least
complaining
until you get it. Or at least find out what it is.”

“What if I’m not missing anything? What if there’s nothing there to miss?”

“You aren’t the type to settle for a good answer when I finally managed one, are you? You gotta push it to the next level of impossibility. In fact”—he laughed again—” I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be impossible all the way around. Maybe”—he stared at her for a long moment, not kidding at all and both of them knew it—“that’s the last word with you. Maybe that’s how you get your kicks after all. You get your kicks by seeing to it that everything remains impossible. And I don’t even mean anything so banal as you and I. I mean a serious effort, conscious or not, in futility as a way of life.”

She hadn’t been ready for that. It was too close to the exact center of her most basic fears. All she could do was own up. “You’re right. I’m into absolutely nothing. Waiting around to die. So what’s a bright, talented young lad like you doing with the likes of me?”

“I don’t exactly know, just yet. Why should I? Maybe I agree with you. Maybe I think you don’t want to believe your own arguments. But I don’t want to turn this into a philosophy seminar. I’ll tell you this: I’m not in love with you—”

“That’s good—”

“—I just like being around you. And I think by now I’ve earned the right to ask you at least one question: Just why in hell do you wanna be around the likes of me? Some dumb kid who doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going, loves and even writes and sings music you hate—like you said the other day, we have absolutely nothing in common. So why did you say yes? And why do I get the feeling that this whole conversation amounts to more of the same? JUST WHAT DO
YOU
SEE IN ME, HUH?”

“I … can’t honestly say. When you’re as old as I am, you’ll understand better, and I don’t mean this to sound condescending, what I mean when I say that ninety-nine percent of men, that I ever encountered at least, are one hundred percent shits. The odds don’t look too good, given my age, my work, my financial situation, my marital status, how many children I’ve contributed to our ever-expanding social future, my history as regards booze and the like—any way you look at it, I’m a bad bet. I hope you appreciate I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re also deliberately leaving out all the emotion.”

“That’s because I don’t feel any yet.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not. I haven’t felt any in a long, long time. I shut all of it off. You kids can afford to throw that emotion stuff all over the place—us older folks, especially women, are rather more spent. And I don’t fit in anywhere. Never have. I never will. You, on the other hand, have a whole ‘generation’ to back up any horseshit you get yourself into. You’re lucky, but I’m not jealous. You’ll end up one of two ways: just like me, or just like the rest of the people on my job. Either way you’ll be unhappy. This ‘generation’ stuff is just a con to try and sell you something I know, I’ve seen it before, the same catchphrases. But the last word is I’m desperate. And THAT’S”—here she bore down almost with a vengeance—“WHY I’M SPENDING FRIDAY NIGHT WITH YOU INSTEAD OF ALONE WITH A BOOK, OR THE RADIO OR TV I NEVER PLAY.” “So you’re desperate. So are millions of other people, but they’re not with me. You are. How come?”

She felt cornered. “Because … I’m just narcissistic enough that when I look at you, I see some of me looking back, and I like that. I want a yes-man—”

“Ah, come on—”

“Okay, then, I want a mirror. Or somebody who shares some of these feelings you call futile. I want to talk like this, even if we’re both just digging one big hole that leads nowhere, as I strongly suspect, I’ve been starved for talk like this for longer than you can imagine. Most people never do it, and when I start to—”

“I know—”

“They get weird.”

He looked her in the eye. “That’s ’cause they’re afraid of you. Because the very fact of you raising the questions threatens the very foundations of their lives, what they live for and why.”

“Don’t you
dare
deny how scared you are of me—”

“Yeah, but that’s different….”

“So what? Maybe we’re wrong and they’re right. Maybe we should just shut up and go buy something.”

“Okay—whaddaya want?”

“Absolutely nothing anybody’s selling, at least not at any price I can afford. Two months on the coast of Spain might be nice. How about
you
?
Surely
there’s some new rock album you’re just
dying
to own.”

“I already bought it, the day it came out.”

“Well then, a new stereo.”

“Old stereos are better, at least for the kind of music I usually listen to, and I already got one.”

“A new guitar.”

“Already own two.”

“Strings.”

“Thirty-four pence apiece.”

“Amp.”

“When I have more money.”

“Clothes.”

“Why? Soon as you get caught up, they change all the fashions so you just have to start all over again.”

“That sounds exactly like something I would say.”

He grinned. “Maybe that answers your question of why we should be together.”