Cries and Laughter 17.1
Why can’t you pull the trigger and let the bullet do its thing?
Your life is over; it’s been over for a long time; finish it already!
17.
Life is not an option because it means the sort of effort and endurance that’s not in you now that you have nothing to live for, no one to live for. Freedom is nice if you have a reason to use it. Now that you finally have it, you have no use for it. Without the possibility of happiness, it’s worthless. It’s happiness you’re after, not freedom, and sometimes things happen in life that make happiness impossible. You have no one. No family, no friends, no God, no one. You have no ties with the old world, you have no ties with the new world. You have no ambition, no interest. Even if you succeed in something, the possible pleasures of life seem insignificant nothings to you. But you’re not sure, so you’re stuck in the misery of indecision, unable to live and unable to die.
It doesn’t make any sense. You don’t care if you live, and you don’t care if you die. But if you don’t care, the decision should be easy, not the hardest decision you’ve ever had to make. So you must care about something, you must at least care about this decision.
The next day you meet some guys next door. It’s Saturday, there’s nothing to do that night. They invite you to go with them to a bar, a dance bar sure to be full of women. “Don’t worry,” they say, they know the bouncer. So you go.
Indeed, they know the bouncer, and he waves you in. A few dollars for the cover and you’re in. A huge, alien place of glittering lights and dark perimeters. A dance floor in the middle, partly surrounded by tables and chairs, cute waitresses going around delivering alcohol, and bartenders serving drinks near the entrance.
You immediately like the place. Deafening music the way it’s meant to be played, and packed with beautiful people. So packed you could let your hand wander for a while before anyone realized who was taking the liberty. A strange place with its own brand of charm.
But it’s been thirty minutes already. You didn’t come just for the atmosphere. You came for a reason, for an answer, to decide. Your own perverse method of answering Hamlet’s question. He probably wouldn’t approve, but it’s not really the same question. So who’ll it be? There are several good-looking girls who would do, but there’s an unusually attractive girl sitting in a dark corner. She’s the one, let her decide.
She’s the best-looking girl in the place. As pretty as Stephanie, but in a different way. When you first see her, your heart jumps because you think it’s her, she looks almost exactly like Stephanie from the back. Same hair, same skin, same figure. But of course, it’s not her. Different face, different eyes. Not as playful or adorable, but sexier, darker, and more knowing. You sense a trace of pain, perhaps sadness, in her face. If Stephanie was irresistible because of her innocence and playfulness, this girl is irresistible because of her pain and knowledge. Instantly you’re drawn to this girl like you were to Stephanie, wanting to comfort her, to take the pain away. That would soothe you for some reason as if her pain was yours. Aren’t you the sentimental type.
No, you just want to sleep with her like every other guy in the place. Just look at that face, that body. Dressed in a short, provocative dress, showing her lovely legs, not afraid to flaunt what she’s got. But the guys aren’t swarming around her. Maybe they’re intimidated, she’s just too good-looking for them. But not for you, you were looking for an impossibly beautiful girl and you’ve found her, and she’s dressed for the occasion. Perfect. Let her decide.
Having second thoughts? You know it has to be one or the other, you can’t do it halfway. Either give it all you’ve got despite all the obstacles or quit. You coasted through high school, you’re not coasting through college. Either make it big or don’t even try. You have to choose, the middle is not an option, not this time. Was it ever?
Whatever you do, you expect only the best from yourself. Not your best, but best, period. You know you won’t be happy otherwise. You thought before that this was arrogance, but it’s not, it’s just the way you are. It’s always all or nothing, always the perfectionist.
You don’t care either way; you’re fine with quitting and you’re fine with success. But success will require work, a lot of hard work, not only to study but to pay for everything. That sort of effort is not in you, you just don’t have the motivation.
And you have no illusions about it — you know the odds, there are so many obstacles. But they are only obstacles, you can overcome them if you want to. But you don’t want to, not this many obstacles, not since you have nothing to prove.
You might if you thought life was worthy, but it’s not. Only the best will do, but that’s impossible. You must’ve been spoiled somehow because you can’t stand anything less. You might deserve nothing, indeed less than nothing, but it’s no longer a question of merit. Life handed you something you shouldn’t have tolerated, but you did and now you’re tired. You won’t play anymore, you just don’t care. To hell with life, to hell with everything. You throw down the gauntlet: Give me the best or I won’t play!
A temper tantrum of a child. A stubborn, spoiled child. But also an ultimatum, a statement of fact, because you have nothing to lose. But that’s too much, life can’t deliver, so you don’t choose life.
The alternative is no better. Certainly easier and simpler, but undesirable in its own way. Too much mystery, too much doubt, you need to be sure. You don’t choose death either.
You have to choose one, however, but you can’t make up your mind. So let her decide for you. If you can get her into bed tonight, you choose life. If you can’t, you choose death. She doesn’t know what she’s deciding for you, but you know, it’s as good a procedure as any. A meaningless one-night stand, but it’s meaningful tonight, meaningful for you, your future shall depend on it. You’re Schrodinger’s cat and she’s the observer. What will it be?
Think this is crazy? She’ll just laugh at you, you’ll make a fool of yourself. A girl like that . . . You have no chance, right? Ah, but that’s why guys aren’t hitting on her. This shouldn’t make any difference to you, you were almost ready to kill yourself yesterday, what’s a little rejection? Not afraid of the truth, are you?
What’s the problem then? That she might have a boyfriend? That she might be married? Are you reluctant because she’s sitting with a friend? Well, let Fate decide, you’ll just have to do your best. You aren’t who you were, you don’t have to be anybody now, be whoever you want to be.
But it’s not that simple, you freeze up at the mere thought of approaching her. You’re downright terrified as if she’s a monster who’ll kill you if you come near. No, worse than that, death you can handle, you could more easily pull the trigger than do this. Why? Why is it so hard?
It doesn’t make any sense. The worst that can happen is a simple rejection, how can it be so terrifying? After all, you should be used to it by now, your stepmother rejected you every day for five years. And not just reject you, she was hostile. How can you survive that and yet be afraid of a simple rejection?
She won’t turn hostile. At worst she’ll laugh and you’ll be embarrassed, that’s all. You’ll never see her again in all probability. You’ll soon forget it, she’ll soon forget it, nobody will remember after a while. It’s so insignificant you shouldn’t waste your time worrying. And yet here you are, not afraid to die, but terrified to approach her. What’s the matter with you? Get some perspective, man!
That’s right, you could handle your stepmother because you had to, you had no choice. When you have no choice, you can handle almost anything. You do have a choice about this, however. You don’t have to do it, you can always play it safe and be a coward, no one would know the difference except you.
But that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter if she knows, it doesn’t matter if anyone else knows, they don’t matter. But if you know the difference, you can never get away from it, you’ll always know you’re a coward. No matter what great things you might achieve in life, you’ll always know. No matter how great other people might think you are, you’ll always know. All the praise in the world will be hollow because you’ll always know. No, this isn’t something you have a choice about, you have to do it, or something inside you will die. Just go to her and start a conversation. Say anything, anything at all.
You have no choice, you say to yourself, you repeat it over and over in your mind until you can finally approach her. But when you do, your mouth doesn’t work, you’ve forgotten how to speak English. The words won’t come, your mind draws a blank, and you can’t even imagine saying anything to this girl. You quickly walk past her before she realizes what a bumbling idiot you are. Back to square one. Sigh.
You know it’s silly, but your mind can’t convince your body. What a predicament. Life would be so much easier if the mind could rule absolutely. It took years to overcome the fear of hell even after you stopped believing. How long will it take to overcome this fear? You don’t have years to waste, you need to get over it now, right now.
This fear is so deeply embedded it’s part of who you are. You couldn’t ask for things. You couldn’t make friends yourself. You couldn’t truly open up to anyone. Any time you deviated was due to almost heroic efforts and extraordinarily motivating circumstances. You became someone else temporarily to do what was needed, then back to your old self, the coward.
You feel a soft touch on your shoulder, a girl walking by, a pretty one, somewhat sad eyes looking directly at you.
“Smile,” she says when she has your attention, almost pleading.
“What?” you say, surprised, though you heard her.
“Smile,” she says again.
You comply without thinking. Something in her tone, you don’t want to disappoint her, like the last request of a dying child.
She smiles back as she disappears, a sweet smile you’ve seen before. Somewhere.
Don’t know what that’s about, but she does have a point. Yes, you’ve been looking at it all wrong, taking it too seriously. Just play with her like the girl that dunked your head in the pool. Just talk to her like the girl who told you to smile.
You make your way toward her again. She doesn’t notice you, she doesn’t even look up. No matter, you nonchalantly sit down opposite her.
“Hi, how you doing?” you say like you know this girl. Everything’s in the attitude.
“OK,” she says, her brown eyes widening a little, at least they look brown in this light.
You wish you had a script, you wish you had thought carefully what to say, spontaneity is hard when you’re not used to it. You have to say something, but all you can think of is:
“What are you drinking?”
You wish you could small talk. What are you supposed to say to a stranger anyway?
“Sex on the Beach,” she says. She doesn’t have the problem you do, or she’s as good as you at hiding it. Well, she does have the advantage, she doesn’t have to lead the conversation anywhere, she has only to react. She doesn’t even have to say anything, she can withstand awkward silences and only you’d come out looking like a fool. She has all the power, all you have is initiative and planning. And since you didn’t think to plan, you have to capitalize on your initiative, you have to keep her reacting.
You get up. It’s not what you had in mind, you’re not supposed to calculate. The idea was to play with her, nothing more. Why can’t you stick to it?
“That sounds good, I’ll be right back,” you say as you leave.
She looks startled as if to protest What are you doing? You’ve violated some protocol, didn’t even introduce yourself. But you had no choice, you didn’t know what to do or say. Except to keep the initiative, and for that, you had to leave. You’re a creature of habit, and it’s hard to change in one day, so calculate a little until spontaneity can take over. Let her react to that while you figure something out. Perhaps a drink, yes that’s a good reason, even though you don’t drink.
“What would you like?” you hear the bartender say.
Good question. What was it she said?
“Sex on the Beach.”
Ordering like a regular. He doesn’t know it’s the only drink you know, the only name you know.
Now what? Go back? She’s checking you out, you got her curious now. But her friend, you ignored her, and she isn’t going to be your ally in their conversation, you’ve got to get them separated. Walk over there.
“Hey, having fun?” you hear someone say, one of the guys you came with.
“Yeah. Nice place.”
“Who was that babe you were talking to? You know her?”
“Not really, but trying to change that.”
“Gotcha.”
Just head on over there . . . And say what?
“Miss me?”
“Sure.” Grinning a little.
Good girl, just play along . . . Now what? Where’s that brain of yours? Can’t you think of anything intelligent to say?
“Why’d you leave?” Looking you squarely in the eyes, serious this time.
Straight to the point, this girl.
“For some Sex on the Beach.”
Smile, a nice smile, she thinks you made a joke.
“Certainly dressed for it.”
Ah, yes, your ridiculous attire: sandals, shorts, a T-shirt, and an unbuttoned shirt on top. Aren’t you Mr. Casual. Good, don’t even pretend to fit in, might as well do it with style if you’re going to stand out anyway. But there’s no meanness in her tone.
“Yeah, very comfortable. Now if only I could find a volunteer and some sand.”
A broad smile, even her friend is smiling.
“There’s no sand here, beach boy, but if you want to dance — ”
“I don’t know, wouldn’t want to embarrass these white boys on the dance floor.”
“They can do that themselves. Come on, Mr. Sex on the Beach, show me what you’ve got.”
“OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, I’m dangerous in these sandals.”
“You warned me,” she says sweetly. As she leads you to the dance floor, you thrill to her touch, to her soft scent, she’s even more gorgeous than you thought.
Not much to club dancing, just rhythmic motions, you fake it well enough. She on the other hand . . . Wow! She can dance, she’s done this before. While you’re only trying to have fun, this girl is having fun, she’s at home here. If you could be natural like this girl . . . If you could block out all the insecurities and truly enjoy this experience . . .
A slow song, slow dance, much easier, basically holding each other close and moving side to side. You can feel her warmth, her body practically on top of yours, separated only by clothes. Dazed . . . Burning up . . . Is lust a sufficient reason for living? She presents a pretty convincing argument.
No shyness in those eyes. Take a chance, you know what you have to do tonight, this is your best opportunity.
You lightly run your hand down her backside to her behind . . . firm . . . You’re getting too excited . . . Surely she notices it, surely she feels your hardness now, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
She starts to grind against your body. Either she’s a tease or you’re not the only one lusting. Time to make your move.
“Wanna go someplace quiet and talk?” you suggest.
She looks up at you with a knowing smile, another smile you’ve seen before. She seems to know your script better than you do.
“Yes,” she agrees.
Yes? You said Yes?
She doesn’t realize she’s supposed to say No, doesn’t realize how absurd it is. Taking your arm, walking out with you, as if that’s what’s supposed to happen, as if this is typical for you, as if she’s glad you didn’t choose someone else.
A new, unfamiliar role she thrusts upon you. Her unspoken wish granted by a dashing, young prince, happy just to be chosen, happy that you made the right choice. A preposterous role you’d never even suspect if she weren’t so obvious, so open. Her body is screaming, she’s not hiding it at all, as if that would be pointless, and insult your intelligence.
And you accept the role like it’s natural, like it was rightfully yours. Because you want to believe? Because it’s so funny, so outrageous? Because you’re the most amazing actor who’s ever lived? Yeah, you should be on Broadway if you can pull this off. The delicious irony of the situation. She thinks you’re Superman when you’re hanging by a thread. She thinks you’re her savior when she’s saved you.
But why tell her? This is a role you wouldn’t mind playing. A house built on sand, could crumble any time, but exhilarating to see it standing at all. You can bluff with the best of them, that’s what your life prepared you for, it’s the constant element in your life. Always searching for your true identity, but you never find it because you don’t have one. You’re a mirror, a chameleon, changing with the seasons, changing with the mood, changing with every situation. So many changes, so disorienting, you want to stop, you want to get off, find an immovable rock and hold on to it. That’s why you created this illusion, this illusion of self. If you can just find it, understand it, and keep it in front of you so you won’t forget . . . But it’s useless, it can’t help you, the illusion itself keeps changing. So embrace who you are. A pretender. That’s the one true thing about you, isn’t it?
Stop fighting with yourself. You’ve been too many people for too long. You’ve been trying to make sense of it for too long. You know every side to every question, yet still no progress. So do yourself a favor and let it be. Be her prince, be her hero, be her knight in shining armor. Believe it, she expects you to, she wants you to.
But you can’t. Not really. Your mind racing to the implications, to the possibilities. Like a dream where everything happens exactly as you ask, exactly as you hoped for. It’s a fairy tale, a fairy tale for the lust generation, just too good to be true. That’s why her friend is coming out. To deliver the bad news.
“Stephanie! He’s here!”
“What?” Her annoyance obvious in her voice.
“Craig! He’s inside!”
Should be annoyed at the interruption, but your grimace isn’t about that, it’s her name. A popular name for sure but still seems incredible. Just a coincidence of course.
The keeper of happiness. She kept it away from you, your Stephanie. She didn’t mean to, her dying wasn’t her fault, but happiness was absent from your life just as surely. Now this girl is to decide your future, how fitting she should have the same name. What will this Stephanie decide?
“Wanna talk to him for a minute,” she says after a moment of hesitation, “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere.”
You merely nod as you watch her disappear. The house about to crumble, you can tell. But which way will it fall?
Her friend approaches you. You take a good look for the first time. Not bad, not bad at all. If it weren’t for Stephanie, you might’ve chosen her instead. You blush as you notice her eyes devouring you in return. This girl is not subtle.
“She’s not coming back.”
“Huh?”
“She’s talking to Craig, her boyfriend.”
What?
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear this.”
“Just tell me.”
She considers your face for a while, trying to decide something . . . trying to soften the truth?
“They had a fight, and she wanted to make him jealous. That’s why she asked you to dance, she wasn’t really going to go home with you.”
So this is how it crumbles. But you don’t want to see it, not yet.
“I just can’t believe that.”
“I’m sorry.”
She’s telling the truth. You know you’re nothing special. There’s no way a girl like that would ever go home with you.
She used you. It wasn’t real. You were just convenient for her purposes. How could you be so naive as to think it was real?
“And you were supposed to come out and let me down easy.”
“Yes.”
“But instead you tell me the truth. Why?”
“Because I . . .”
Because it’d be funnier, more humiliating this way? So you can remember my expression when you told me? So you two can have a good laugh afterward? That poor, miserable loser, he thought you’d go out with him!
No, because you took pity on me. Somehow you knew how much I needed the truth. Somebody had to set me straight, once and for all, why not you?
“I know it’s a low thing to do,” she says, touching your hand, “Sometimes she can be such a bitch.”
And sometimes I can be such an idiot. I thought I could read people, I thought I could tell appearance from reality . . .
Flush with anger and embarrassment, you turn to leave.
“Wait, please.”
You stop but remain turned, you don’t want to face her. The embarrassment is bad enough, her pity makes it intolerable. She walks around to face you, however.
“Forget Stephanie, she’s no good. But I . . . I’ll go with you.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“This is not pity!”
Indeed you can tell she wants you. But something’s not right, something you can’t quite figure out.
“I’m going home” is all you can say as you walk away.
“What is it? I’m not good enough for you? Not pretty enough for you?”
How can you answer that? You don’t know why, and if you did you still couldn’t answer.
“Yeah, go home, you ugly, yellow piece of shit!”
The blackness of the night, the silence of the streets, a haven. Hiding the ugliness, hiding the humiliation, but not the truth.
You keep walking, the savage cry echoing in your mind like the final judgment you can’t escape from. You should be mad, should turn around and say something equally brutal, who the hell does she think she is? She doesn’t even know you, you should’ve told her to shut the fuck up.
But it’s true, you know it’s true. Almost a relief really to hear someone say it, relieves you of having to say it yourself, of making the judgment yourself. How nice of her to give you what you’ve been looking for. Do you have your certainty? Can you get on with it now?
A long walk home, but you don’t remember any of it because the judgment keeps echoing in your head. You’d rather forget, you’d rather think about something else, but you can’t.
There’s no sand here, beach boy, but if you want to dance, I’ll show you what a fool you are. That’s why you picked me, right? A total stranger to confirm what you’ve known all along. Come on, Mr. Sex on the Beach, show me what you’ve got and I’ll show you what you are. Just take my hand and inhale my knowledge, I’ll make this night so unforgettable you’ll never have to ask the question again. I’m doing you a favor, don’t you see? Drink my sweet smile until you feel lightheaded. Feel my anticipating body until there’s no doubt. And when you’re sure, I’ll show you. That even when it seems so real, it’s not, it never was, it never will be . . .
As you enter your room, it all begins to sink in. As you lie on your bed, things begin to crystallize. You have your answer, you have your decision, your future could not be more clear. Why wait? You’re certain this time, you can take the final step.