Here is the schedule for the Stories and Songs residency at Googies Lounge - 154 Ludlow Street on the Lower East Side - I will be hosting every Sunday in September. Hope to see you there.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
8 – 8:15: Minju Pak
8:30 – 9:10: Danny Lanzetta
9:20 – 10:00: Paul Basile
Sunday, September 12, 2010
8 – 8:15: Andrew Cotto
8:30 – 9:10: Danny Lanzetta
9:20 – 10:00: Clyde featuring Misty Boyce and Nick Africano
Sunday, September 19, 2010
8 – 8:15: Andrew Zornoza
8:30 – 9:10: Danny Lanzetta
9:20 – 10:00 Matt Singer and Bryan Dunn
Sunday, September 26, 21010
8 – 8:15: Joseph Salvatore
8:30 – 9:10: Danny Lanzetta
9:20 – 10:00: Chris Cubeta, Emily Easterly and J. Seger
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Gadfly: Chapter 2
At precisely nine a.m., the telephone rang again. Gadfly bristled. He turned from the sink, kicked Valerie around a little so he could walk through the kitchen without tripping over her. He went into the living room and picked up the phone on the tenth ring.
“Hello.”
“Gadfly, Jesus. It’s John at The Eagle. What the hell took you so long to get to the phone? It’s not like you live in a mansion or something.”
There was a crackle on the phone.
“Will? You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Listen, Marty wants you to come by. Can you come by today?”
“I have a very busy day.”
“I’m sure you do. But it would mean a lot to me. Everybody misses you around here. Even Luke said it. Can you believe that?”
Gadfly rolled the possibility around his head.
“Just come in, talk to Marty and see what he has to say.”
“What does he have to say?”
“I don’t know. That’s what you have to come in here for. To see what he says.”
“Can he tell me over the phone?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know, Will. It’s just one of those face-to-face things. It’s hard to know what somebody’s thinking on the phone.”
“Hmm.”
Gadfly flicked his tongue back and forth against the inside wetness of his lips. He was thinking about having dinner with his mother that evening at 6 p.m. He was wondering whether he could make it earlier.
“Will?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes. But not for very long. I have a long day’s worth of errands and then dinner with my mother and then I am leaving.”
“Where you going?”
“Away.”
“Going on vacation, huh? That might do you some good.”
“Some good. Yes.”
“Well, OK. This is great. I’ll tell Marty. What time will you be by?”
“I will call when I’m in the neighborhood.”
“Around when will that be?”
“Some time this afternoon.”
“Can’t you be more specific than that?”
“No.”
Gadfly hung up the phone and walked from the living room to his bedroom where the bed was still unmade. There was a close, worn-in smell, like the sweat from the crook of an elbow. He was still naked but hardly realized it. He thought about what there was to do. He remembered the list he’d made the night before. He’d left it on the nightstand. It was dark in the room; he’d bought thick, ivory-colored shades to keep out the light. Maria hadn’t liked it so much. “Why does it have to be so dark all the time?” He told her she could raise the shades whenever she felt the need, but she rarely did, except when she had to get up before him and needed a little light to dress herself.
Usually they got up at the same time and the apartment was a dark box of morningtime bustle. They even rode the subway together, to their jobs in Midtown. But on the occasional days when Maria had to be somewhere earlier than he did, he’d watch her. And very intently, like he was waiting to find out the ending. There was nothing extraordinary about it. She’d come from the shower, a towel tight around her midsection, barely covering her breasts. He’d seen her do this a hundred times during their marriage and hadn’t once thought to unwrap her right then and there. It never seemed like the right time.
She’d undo the towel and stand in the room for three or four minutes as she dried herself, rolled on her deodorant and selected her clothing. But what Gadfly liked best about the whole process was when she would nakedly decide upon a pair of earrings. She’d lift the shade just a bit to let in the light, and then she’d walk around to the other side of the room in order to open up the singing jewelry box on the dresser that played “Pop Goes the Weasel.” She had a lot of earrings and liked to mix it up. But his favorite pair was the silent green hoops emblazoned with moons and stars. After her choice, she’d close the box. The music would shut down at the exact moment of box-top-clap-upon-box-frame, and the room would blink and become a church. Then she would turn to her standing mirror, which was tall and cylindrical. She’d insisted on having it transported from her old apartment to the brownstone, though she wasn’t nearly so demanding about bringing much of anything else to her new life.
When she was in front of the mirror, she would carefully attach the chosen earrings to those fleshy white lobes of hers that Gadfly liked to flick after sex. She kept her hair dark, straight and short, just below the shoulders, and she always scooped it behind her ears in order to get a better look at herself. Then she’d stick out her bottom and lean into the mirror. And on those days when Gadfly was supposed to be asleep, he’d feign a body shift away from the window so that her bottom was nearly touching his face. Yet no matter how many times that happened over nearly four years of marriage, he never got excited. He’d been excited by such a position many times before, with many different women, but something about the quietude of her actions made him immune. He never asked her why she did all those preparatory things before she got dressed – her body prone to the world like someone’s tenuous faith – mostly because he was afraid that if he pried, she wouldn’t do it anymore.
He sat down on the bed, rolled up both of the shades all the way and checked the wall clock. He took his pulse. 84. It was a habit now, one he couldn’t seem to break even though he didn’t much care what the result was. When he’d gone for a checkup near his 36th birthday, the doctor had said that his pulse was running a bit faster than it should be. It was nothing to be overly concerned about. Still, he advised Gadfly to keep a log of his pulse in the morning, in the middle of the day and before bed. After three months, Gadfly came back and his pulse numbers had come down so that the doctor was no longer concerned. But Gadfly kept the habit anyway. Almost five years later, he still couldn’t break it, though he no longer recorded the results in a notebook. He simply needed to make sure his pulse was still with him.
He tried listening to himself. He heard breathing and something settling down inside his stomach. He tried to listen harder, but it was too difficult with the body in the other room. It did not matter that she wasn’t alive. It only mattered that she was there and distracting him from going too far inside himself. He decided to do something else and picked up the list from the nightstand. He examined it. There was a dark ring in the center from the glass of milk he’d been drinking before bed. He looked at what he’d written:
Things to Do 12/2
1. Call to cancel newspaper
2. Throw out food
3. Bring back bowling shoes
4. Buy bus ticket
5. Pick up books from Luke’s apartment
6. Visit Valerie
7. Go to park
8. Stop at school
9. Close bank account
10. Dinner with Mom
Gadfly felt unsettled for the first time all morning (with the exception of when Valerie was cleaning the bowl). With the phone call from the Eagle, Gadfly had to add one more thing to the list. It was a twofold problem. The first problem was that the list was written in chronological order, with some regard to the geographical position of each of the places he needed to go. Now that he had to stop by his old job (which he didn’t mind so much because he would be able to ask Luke about the books), Gadfly needed to write a new list that, at the very least, would incorporate a visit to the office in its appropriate time slot. The second problem – or not so much problem as much as a shift – was that he no longer needed to visit Valerie. Gadfly crumpled up the note, picked up one of the golf pencils that was leaning inside another glass on the nightstand and fetched his yellow pad from the drawer. After a minute or so, the new list was ready:
Things to Do (Revised) 12/2
1. Call to cancel newspaper
2. Throw out food
3. Bring back bowling shoes
4. Buy bus ticket
5. Go to office
6. Pick up books from Luke’s apartment
7. Stop at school
8. Go to park
9. Close bank account
10. Dinner with Mom
He looked at the revised list and was pleased. He was glad there were still ten items. He liked things in intervals of five. He knew he’d have to go to Midtown to buy his bus ticket. He’d meant to pick it up earlier, but he’d only decided on his departure date in the last week or so and there simply hadn’t been any time. It was inconvenient to go to Port Authority in the middle of the day, especially since he had to return there later. But he wanted to take care of it early on, to make sure there were no last-minute, ticket mix-ups (which was also the reason he’d refused to order his ticket over the phone or online). He wanted to feel the trip in his hands. The Port Authority was by his old office anyway and so – for the most part – all of his stops flowed well from one to the other. He felt satisfied with that.
Gadfly picked up his wallet from the nightstand. He then folded the new list in half and placed it in a secret pocket of his wallet, underneath where he kept his credit cards and business cards and his Non-Driver Identification Card. The wallet was stuffed with all sorts of other things too: napkin notes, nickels, receipts, scratched-up photographs, a tiny map of London, a piece of old fabric, a passport card which he’d received to cover a fashion show in Bermuda a few years back. (Maria didn’t want to come. Too busy at work for Bermuda.) And now it also had the list of things he had to do before leaving New York. As soon as it was complete and in its proper place, the list felt like a small, red gnawing at the bottom of his back.
He walked back into the living room and sat down in his reading chair. Originally, a man with a truck was going to pick up all the things Gadfly was leaving behind. Gadfly had called the Salvation Army, but there were too many conditions. They wanted him to be there to oversee the pick up. They wanted to give him a receipt. They wanted to know if he believed in stem cell research. Instead, he’d taken out an ad in his old newspaper. It read:
Lots of good stuff. All yours. Free. Applicants should call for details and stipulations.
There were several phone calls, though he’d had to place the ad three times in order to find the right person. Most people were confused by how evasive Gadfly was and were turned off by all his caveats. One: He would not be there to oversee the pick-up or the transport. Two: Anyone who agreed to take the stuff must take everything that was left in the apartment, leaving nothing behind. Three: He did not know exactly when he would need the stuff to be picked up, but whenever he called and said he was leaving, it had to be taken away within one week. Finally: Whoever agreed to take the items could not sell them for profit. They must keep them together and find a place for them either at home or in storage. Gadfly understood there was no way to truly enforce these stipulations. That was why he needed to find exactly the right person.
The search proved fruitless, though. There was one person, an eccentric fisherman named Garrison Tweedy, who’d been interested. But he called Gadfly a few days later to say he’d been extradited to Oregon on an old burglary charge and would not be able to take the things after all.
When Gadfly hung up the phone with Tweedy, a few days before he was scheduled to leave, he was distressed. What would he do now? His plan had been to carry out a garbage bag of all the leftover food and to leave the key for Tweedy under the mat. But now, he was at a loss. Should he postpone his plans and place another ad? Should he call back Tweedy and demand some sort of compensation? (That hardly seemed likely.) Should he begin to carry the larger items out to the trash dumpster behind his apartment building? Should he re-contact the Salvation Army and see how quickly they could arrange a pick-up?
And then, in the middle of all those frenetic ruminations, during which Gadfly found an old pack of gum in a drawer and chewed each and every piece until it had lost its cinnamon flavor, a most revolutionary idea occurred to him:
Simply. Leave. Everything.
When it came to him, he could not believe he hadn’t thought of it earlier. The one thing that had consumed him when he was originally deciding to leave New York was what would happen to his things. What will I do with my things? he asked himself over and over. Donating them to charity seemed gratuitous. The problem of his things had so occupied his mind, he hardly thought of anything else for whole days, until the Tweedy deal was in place. That gave him peace, knowing his things would be somewhere. They would not simply vanish or disintegrate into ideas. He liked that his things would be used by someone who would gain pleasure from their various functions and idiosyncrasies: the toaster’s vague hiccup signaling the bread was done before it had actually popped; the clack-clack-clack of the fan blades knocking around a quarter he’d never bothered to shake from the grille; the way his stories might nourish the stomachs of eccentric teenagers looking for something different to read before bed.
But with the flash of a thought, he freed himself of all constraints. Why not just leave it all? he thought. There was no good reason not to. It even appealed to him to know that his apartment would remain fixed, at least for a little while, after his departure. And so, by the time he’d chewed a fifth piece of gum, it was settled. Nothing was leaving. Everything was staying in those three rooms. And there was nothing anybody could do about it until long after he’d disappeared.
Gadfly remembered the epiphany fondly as he sat in his chair. Still naked, he picked up the phone to begin his first task.
He dialed the number and thwapped his damp thighs together three times. There was a hard rain outside now, almost too loud to hear the music as he waited on hold for several minutes. An automated woman kept telling him what a valued customer he was. Her voice was occasionally interrupted by an instrumental string version of “She Loves You” (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah) during which Gadfly stared straight ahead and waited. After a minute or so, the assured tone of a real woman came over the line.
“Hello. Thank you for calling the New York Eagle. My name is Sara. Would you like to take advantage of our 50 percent off promotion, available now, for a limited time, as part of our special holiday ‘Thank You’ to our valued Metropolitan Area customers? This is a very special, limited offer and can only be accessed now through Christmas Day. Would you like me to sign you up? It will only take a couple of minutes and we can process the order so that you’re receiving your reduced-rate subscription within five business days.”
“Um, no.”
“Well, then, how can I help you, sir?”
“Um, well, I’d like to cancel my subscription.”
“OK.”
Keyboard clicking.
“Can I have your name and zip code please?”
“Gadfly. William Gadfly. 10128.”
Keyboard clicking. Pause. Then:
“Mr. Gadfly?”
“Yes?”
“William Gadfly?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“Excuse me. I’m sorry. That’s right. You did. But are you the same William Gadfly who used to write the Lifestyles column for The Eagle?”
“Um, yes.”
“Mr. Gadfly, sir. If you don’t mind me saying so, I used to love your work.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Well, talk to you, I guess. This isn’t really a meeting, I suppose.”
“I suppose not.”
“I wondered what happened to you, sir, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Um, well …”
“I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that it seemed like one minute I was reading about you going to parties with all those bigwig, famous New York-types, and the next minute your column was gone. Poof. Just like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I just assumed you got a better offer somewhere. I mean, a writer of your caliber …”
“Thank you.”
“No. Thank you. A writer of your caliber can’t be expected to stay in the same place for too long, you know what I mean?”
Shifting. Silence.
“Well, sir, I hope you don’t mind it too much, but I do have to ask why you’re canceling your subscription with us today. Company policy, you know.”
“I know. I’m moving.”
“I see.”
Keyboard clicking.
“It says here your subscription should have ended nine months ago, right at the time of your termina … I mean, at the time you left the paper.”
“It still comes, though. Every morning. I haven’t been able to stop it.”
“I see. Have you called us before?”
“Once before.”
“And what happened?”
“They said they’d stop sending it. But it kept coming.”
“I see.”
Keyboard clicking.
“Well, it appears that somebody has checked off the ‘Lifetime Subscription’ option on our computer. That can only be removed by someone in upper management.”
“I see.”
“Would you like me to contact someone?”
“Umm …”
“It’s quite a process, just so you know, to have a lifetime subscription revoked. I’ll need to hand it off to my supervisor.”
“OK. I just don’t want the papers to keep on coming.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t want them to block up the hallway downstairs. It might upset the neighbors.”
“Well, Mr. Gadfly, I can certainly contact my supervisor.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem, Mr. Gadfly.”
“Thanks.”
No sound.
“Mr. Gadfly?”
“Yes?”
“Would it be inappropriate of me to ask you a rather personal question, sir?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Well, what are you doing these days?”
No sound. Then:
“Not much, really.”
“Because I’ve heard some things …”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’ve heard, that, well, you had some sort of … well … episode.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And, well, if that’s the case – and I don’t know that it is, I’m just saying – I just want to say that my prayers are with you, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, they are, sir. I believe that you’re a good man. Nobody could put words together in the way you do without being a good person down deep. That might sound naive, but I firmly believe it’s true. I know it’s not my place to say, but I just want to tell you that I’ve been praying for you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. That’s why I think it’s so weird that I’m the one who picked up your call. Most of the people here don’t even read The Eagle and don’t have any idea who writes for the paper. But I like good writing. And you were the best, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I don’t mind it at all. Thank you.”
Nothing. Then:
“What did you say your name was, again?”
“Sara. Sara Gutkin.”
“Thank you, Sara. That’s very nice of you to say.”
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t the truth. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt this way, but sometimes, when I’m reading the words of certain people, I just feel like I know them. Like I know who they are. Like their words have some sort of heavy imprint that was already pressed on my brain, so that it feels like I could’ve written the words myself, like I had the words all along, maybe in another lifetime. Of course, I’m not that talented. The words just feel familiar, but in an exciting way, you know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Oh, it’s silly, I know. I felt that way when I read a book called The Awakening. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, of course you do. After I read that book, I just felt like smiling. I know it’s got a depressing ending and I shouldn’t have felt that way. But I couldn’t help it. It just made me feel so happy to know that sometimes people feel desperate, that I’m not the only one. Not that I feel like that all the time. Don’t get me wrong. Usually I’m pretty happy. And I don’t want to drown myself, or anything like that. But just sometimes it’s nice to know that people feel the same way you do. Does that make sense to you, Mr. Gadfly?”
“Yes. It does”
“Of course it does. What a silly question for me to ask. You’re a great writer. You must feel all sorts of things that I can only imagine about. And I know you only wrote a kind of gossip column – no offense or anything – but I felt the same way about you. Mostly it was the way you put words together. I remember one time you were at some movie premiere or fashion show and you were talking about Gwyneth Paltrow. You said she gave off a ‘glassy nihilism.’ Ha! Imagine that! I would never have thought to put those two words together. But it was so right, you know?”
“Thank you, Sara.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Gadfly.”
“Call me William, please.”
“OK. William.”
“Sara?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 22.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes. Three years, now. I have a little boy, too. His name is Steven.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“I think so too. It’s a common one. But I like it.”
“Me too.”
Nothing. Then:
“Well, I better get going, Mr. Gadfly.”
“OK.”
“I’m supposed to ask if there’s anything else I can help you with today.”
“No. You’ve been a big help.”
“Thanks. And I promise I’ll talk to my supervisor. Usually, when somebody leaves the paper, they just stop sending your complimentary subscription. Someone in corporate must really like you. Either that, or it’s just an oversight.”
“Probably just an oversight.”
“Probably. OK, Mr. Gadfly. I mean, William. Thanks for talking to me for a little while. I’m glad I got a chance to talk to you before you leave town. Hey, where are you headed to, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I haven’t really decided yet.”
“Well, that’s OK. I guess they need good writers everywhere, so you should be OK. And don’t take it the wrong way that I said I pray for you, OK? I pray for a lot of people. It doesn’t mean you need it. But it’s always nice to have a little extra help in your corner, don’t you think?”
“I think that must be true.”
“Good. Well, goodbye, Mr. Gadfly.”
“Goodbye, Sara.”
“’Til we meet again.”
Sara laughed a nervous little gurgle before hanging up. Gadfly kept the receiver to his ear until the sound reset and he could hear the settled hum of the dial tone. Then he placed the receiver back into its cradle. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
A few moments later he was walking back into his bedroom, selecting which clothes he wanted to bring with him. It would only be one outfit, the one he decided to wear. There would be no other encumbrances. He had never been a very concerned dresser. His indifference had incensed Maria, who would often make him change several times before they left for a social engagement. Finally, she got fed up. One Saturday, when he had been out by himself, he got home to find his closet had been arranged so that each hanger held an entire outfit, each of which she deemed acceptable for various types of occasions. Shirt, pants, socks too, and a paper-clipped note about which shoes she considered appropriate. No more sartorial decisions for William Gadfly. Just grab a hanger and step right in. He was simultaneously annoyed and grateful. He went along with it.
When he finally decided on something to wear – jeans, long-sleeve black button-down with collar, brown loafers – he laid the articles out on the bed and went to his underwear drawer. He was aware that his behind was clearly visible through the bedroom window. He thought about the little girl across the street. He wasn’t sure what time she left for school. Probably earlier than this. Her name was Nel. He knew her from the walks he used to take to Central Park. He didn’t care if she could see him naked. He wouldn’t have minded it. It had been a while since he’d spoken to Nel. He dressed himself slowly.
When Gadfly emerged from his bedroom, shirt tucked in, he felt comfortable with the way he looked. He then went to the cupboard, grabbed an extra large garbage bag and opened the refrigerator door. He began scooping the few items scattered inside – among them a Tupperware of leftover lemon chicken, a full bottle of ranch dressing, a nearly-empty carton of milk, a can of Diet Pepsi, an unopened package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs – into the bag. He did the same thing with the freezer before slinging the bag over his shoulder. When he was ready to leave, he had only the bag of food, the clothes he was wearing (including a lightweight, pullover windbreaker), his wallet, his keys (did he need them?), a black band digital watch on his left wrist and a green Capezio shoebox with a pair of size-eight bowling shoes that he’d been keeping at the bottom of his closet. He couldn’t remember how he’d managed to walk out of the alley with them. But he wanted to return them now and settle the issue once and for all, before he left town for good.
He walked through the kitchen without hesitation and didn’t bother to take a last look around. He’d been able to move the body enough so that he did not have to address it before he left. He closed the door, locked it and exited the apartment. He stopped at the incinerator to toss away the food. As he walked down the stairs of the apartment, it was just before ten o’clock.
Everything was still right on schedule.
“Hello.”
“Gadfly, Jesus. It’s John at The Eagle. What the hell took you so long to get to the phone? It’s not like you live in a mansion or something.”
There was a crackle on the phone.
“Will? You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Listen, Marty wants you to come by. Can you come by today?”
“I have a very busy day.”
“I’m sure you do. But it would mean a lot to me. Everybody misses you around here. Even Luke said it. Can you believe that?”
Gadfly rolled the possibility around his head.
“Just come in, talk to Marty and see what he has to say.”
“What does he have to say?”
“I don’t know. That’s what you have to come in here for. To see what he says.”
“Can he tell me over the phone?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know, Will. It’s just one of those face-to-face things. It’s hard to know what somebody’s thinking on the phone.”
“Hmm.”
Gadfly flicked his tongue back and forth against the inside wetness of his lips. He was thinking about having dinner with his mother that evening at 6 p.m. He was wondering whether he could make it earlier.
“Will?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes. But not for very long. I have a long day’s worth of errands and then dinner with my mother and then I am leaving.”
“Where you going?”
“Away.”
“Going on vacation, huh? That might do you some good.”
“Some good. Yes.”
“Well, OK. This is great. I’ll tell Marty. What time will you be by?”
“I will call when I’m in the neighborhood.”
“Around when will that be?”
“Some time this afternoon.”
“Can’t you be more specific than that?”
“No.”
Gadfly hung up the phone and walked from the living room to his bedroom where the bed was still unmade. There was a close, worn-in smell, like the sweat from the crook of an elbow. He was still naked but hardly realized it. He thought about what there was to do. He remembered the list he’d made the night before. He’d left it on the nightstand. It was dark in the room; he’d bought thick, ivory-colored shades to keep out the light. Maria hadn’t liked it so much. “Why does it have to be so dark all the time?” He told her she could raise the shades whenever she felt the need, but she rarely did, except when she had to get up before him and needed a little light to dress herself.
Usually they got up at the same time and the apartment was a dark box of morningtime bustle. They even rode the subway together, to their jobs in Midtown. But on the occasional days when Maria had to be somewhere earlier than he did, he’d watch her. And very intently, like he was waiting to find out the ending. There was nothing extraordinary about it. She’d come from the shower, a towel tight around her midsection, barely covering her breasts. He’d seen her do this a hundred times during their marriage and hadn’t once thought to unwrap her right then and there. It never seemed like the right time.
She’d undo the towel and stand in the room for three or four minutes as she dried herself, rolled on her deodorant and selected her clothing. But what Gadfly liked best about the whole process was when she would nakedly decide upon a pair of earrings. She’d lift the shade just a bit to let in the light, and then she’d walk around to the other side of the room in order to open up the singing jewelry box on the dresser that played “Pop Goes the Weasel.” She had a lot of earrings and liked to mix it up. But his favorite pair was the silent green hoops emblazoned with moons and stars. After her choice, she’d close the box. The music would shut down at the exact moment of box-top-clap-upon-box-frame, and the room would blink and become a church. Then she would turn to her standing mirror, which was tall and cylindrical. She’d insisted on having it transported from her old apartment to the brownstone, though she wasn’t nearly so demanding about bringing much of anything else to her new life.
When she was in front of the mirror, she would carefully attach the chosen earrings to those fleshy white lobes of hers that Gadfly liked to flick after sex. She kept her hair dark, straight and short, just below the shoulders, and she always scooped it behind her ears in order to get a better look at herself. Then she’d stick out her bottom and lean into the mirror. And on those days when Gadfly was supposed to be asleep, he’d feign a body shift away from the window so that her bottom was nearly touching his face. Yet no matter how many times that happened over nearly four years of marriage, he never got excited. He’d been excited by such a position many times before, with many different women, but something about the quietude of her actions made him immune. He never asked her why she did all those preparatory things before she got dressed – her body prone to the world like someone’s tenuous faith – mostly because he was afraid that if he pried, she wouldn’t do it anymore.
He sat down on the bed, rolled up both of the shades all the way and checked the wall clock. He took his pulse. 84. It was a habit now, one he couldn’t seem to break even though he didn’t much care what the result was. When he’d gone for a checkup near his 36th birthday, the doctor had said that his pulse was running a bit faster than it should be. It was nothing to be overly concerned about. Still, he advised Gadfly to keep a log of his pulse in the morning, in the middle of the day and before bed. After three months, Gadfly came back and his pulse numbers had come down so that the doctor was no longer concerned. But Gadfly kept the habit anyway. Almost five years later, he still couldn’t break it, though he no longer recorded the results in a notebook. He simply needed to make sure his pulse was still with him.
He tried listening to himself. He heard breathing and something settling down inside his stomach. He tried to listen harder, but it was too difficult with the body in the other room. It did not matter that she wasn’t alive. It only mattered that she was there and distracting him from going too far inside himself. He decided to do something else and picked up the list from the nightstand. He examined it. There was a dark ring in the center from the glass of milk he’d been drinking before bed. He looked at what he’d written:
Things to Do 12/2
1. Call to cancel newspaper
2. Throw out food
3. Bring back bowling shoes
4. Buy bus ticket
5. Pick up books from Luke’s apartment
6. Visit Valerie
7. Go to park
8. Stop at school
9. Close bank account
10. Dinner with Mom
Gadfly felt unsettled for the first time all morning (with the exception of when Valerie was cleaning the bowl). With the phone call from the Eagle, Gadfly had to add one more thing to the list. It was a twofold problem. The first problem was that the list was written in chronological order, with some regard to the geographical position of each of the places he needed to go. Now that he had to stop by his old job (which he didn’t mind so much because he would be able to ask Luke about the books), Gadfly needed to write a new list that, at the very least, would incorporate a visit to the office in its appropriate time slot. The second problem – or not so much problem as much as a shift – was that he no longer needed to visit Valerie. Gadfly crumpled up the note, picked up one of the golf pencils that was leaning inside another glass on the nightstand and fetched his yellow pad from the drawer. After a minute or so, the new list was ready:
Things to Do (Revised) 12/2
1. Call to cancel newspaper
2. Throw out food
3. Bring back bowling shoes
4. Buy bus ticket
5. Go to office
6. Pick up books from Luke’s apartment
7. Stop at school
8. Go to park
9. Close bank account
10. Dinner with Mom
He looked at the revised list and was pleased. He was glad there were still ten items. He liked things in intervals of five. He knew he’d have to go to Midtown to buy his bus ticket. He’d meant to pick it up earlier, but he’d only decided on his departure date in the last week or so and there simply hadn’t been any time. It was inconvenient to go to Port Authority in the middle of the day, especially since he had to return there later. But he wanted to take care of it early on, to make sure there were no last-minute, ticket mix-ups (which was also the reason he’d refused to order his ticket over the phone or online). He wanted to feel the trip in his hands. The Port Authority was by his old office anyway and so – for the most part – all of his stops flowed well from one to the other. He felt satisfied with that.
Gadfly picked up his wallet from the nightstand. He then folded the new list in half and placed it in a secret pocket of his wallet, underneath where he kept his credit cards and business cards and his Non-Driver Identification Card. The wallet was stuffed with all sorts of other things too: napkin notes, nickels, receipts, scratched-up photographs, a tiny map of London, a piece of old fabric, a passport card which he’d received to cover a fashion show in Bermuda a few years back. (Maria didn’t want to come. Too busy at work for Bermuda.) And now it also had the list of things he had to do before leaving New York. As soon as it was complete and in its proper place, the list felt like a small, red gnawing at the bottom of his back.
He walked back into the living room and sat down in his reading chair. Originally, a man with a truck was going to pick up all the things Gadfly was leaving behind. Gadfly had called the Salvation Army, but there were too many conditions. They wanted him to be there to oversee the pick up. They wanted to give him a receipt. They wanted to know if he believed in stem cell research. Instead, he’d taken out an ad in his old newspaper. It read:
Lots of good stuff. All yours. Free. Applicants should call for details and stipulations.
There were several phone calls, though he’d had to place the ad three times in order to find the right person. Most people were confused by how evasive Gadfly was and were turned off by all his caveats. One: He would not be there to oversee the pick-up or the transport. Two: Anyone who agreed to take the stuff must take everything that was left in the apartment, leaving nothing behind. Three: He did not know exactly when he would need the stuff to be picked up, but whenever he called and said he was leaving, it had to be taken away within one week. Finally: Whoever agreed to take the items could not sell them for profit. They must keep them together and find a place for them either at home or in storage. Gadfly understood there was no way to truly enforce these stipulations. That was why he needed to find exactly the right person.
The search proved fruitless, though. There was one person, an eccentric fisherman named Garrison Tweedy, who’d been interested. But he called Gadfly a few days later to say he’d been extradited to Oregon on an old burglary charge and would not be able to take the things after all.
When Gadfly hung up the phone with Tweedy, a few days before he was scheduled to leave, he was distressed. What would he do now? His plan had been to carry out a garbage bag of all the leftover food and to leave the key for Tweedy under the mat. But now, he was at a loss. Should he postpone his plans and place another ad? Should he call back Tweedy and demand some sort of compensation? (That hardly seemed likely.) Should he begin to carry the larger items out to the trash dumpster behind his apartment building? Should he re-contact the Salvation Army and see how quickly they could arrange a pick-up?
And then, in the middle of all those frenetic ruminations, during which Gadfly found an old pack of gum in a drawer and chewed each and every piece until it had lost its cinnamon flavor, a most revolutionary idea occurred to him:
Simply. Leave. Everything.
When it came to him, he could not believe he hadn’t thought of it earlier. The one thing that had consumed him when he was originally deciding to leave New York was what would happen to his things. What will I do with my things? he asked himself over and over. Donating them to charity seemed gratuitous. The problem of his things had so occupied his mind, he hardly thought of anything else for whole days, until the Tweedy deal was in place. That gave him peace, knowing his things would be somewhere. They would not simply vanish or disintegrate into ideas. He liked that his things would be used by someone who would gain pleasure from their various functions and idiosyncrasies: the toaster’s vague hiccup signaling the bread was done before it had actually popped; the clack-clack-clack of the fan blades knocking around a quarter he’d never bothered to shake from the grille; the way his stories might nourish the stomachs of eccentric teenagers looking for something different to read before bed.
But with the flash of a thought, he freed himself of all constraints. Why not just leave it all? he thought. There was no good reason not to. It even appealed to him to know that his apartment would remain fixed, at least for a little while, after his departure. And so, by the time he’d chewed a fifth piece of gum, it was settled. Nothing was leaving. Everything was staying in those three rooms. And there was nothing anybody could do about it until long after he’d disappeared.
Gadfly remembered the epiphany fondly as he sat in his chair. Still naked, he picked up the phone to begin his first task.
He dialed the number and thwapped his damp thighs together three times. There was a hard rain outside now, almost too loud to hear the music as he waited on hold for several minutes. An automated woman kept telling him what a valued customer he was. Her voice was occasionally interrupted by an instrumental string version of “She Loves You” (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah) during which Gadfly stared straight ahead and waited. After a minute or so, the assured tone of a real woman came over the line.
“Hello. Thank you for calling the New York Eagle. My name is Sara. Would you like to take advantage of our 50 percent off promotion, available now, for a limited time, as part of our special holiday ‘Thank You’ to our valued Metropolitan Area customers? This is a very special, limited offer and can only be accessed now through Christmas Day. Would you like me to sign you up? It will only take a couple of minutes and we can process the order so that you’re receiving your reduced-rate subscription within five business days.”
“Um, no.”
“Well, then, how can I help you, sir?”
“Um, well, I’d like to cancel my subscription.”
“OK.”
Keyboard clicking.
“Can I have your name and zip code please?”
“Gadfly. William Gadfly. 10128.”
Keyboard clicking. Pause. Then:
“Mr. Gadfly?”
“Yes?”
“William Gadfly?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“Excuse me. I’m sorry. That’s right. You did. But are you the same William Gadfly who used to write the Lifestyles column for The Eagle?”
“Um, yes.”
“Mr. Gadfly, sir. If you don’t mind me saying so, I used to love your work.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Well, talk to you, I guess. This isn’t really a meeting, I suppose.”
“I suppose not.”
“I wondered what happened to you, sir, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Um, well …”
“I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that it seemed like one minute I was reading about you going to parties with all those bigwig, famous New York-types, and the next minute your column was gone. Poof. Just like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I just assumed you got a better offer somewhere. I mean, a writer of your caliber …”
“Thank you.”
“No. Thank you. A writer of your caliber can’t be expected to stay in the same place for too long, you know what I mean?”
Shifting. Silence.
“Well, sir, I hope you don’t mind it too much, but I do have to ask why you’re canceling your subscription with us today. Company policy, you know.”
“I know. I’m moving.”
“I see.”
Keyboard clicking.
“It says here your subscription should have ended nine months ago, right at the time of your termina … I mean, at the time you left the paper.”
“It still comes, though. Every morning. I haven’t been able to stop it.”
“I see. Have you called us before?”
“Once before.”
“And what happened?”
“They said they’d stop sending it. But it kept coming.”
“I see.”
Keyboard clicking.
“Well, it appears that somebody has checked off the ‘Lifetime Subscription’ option on our computer. That can only be removed by someone in upper management.”
“I see.”
“Would you like me to contact someone?”
“Umm …”
“It’s quite a process, just so you know, to have a lifetime subscription revoked. I’ll need to hand it off to my supervisor.”
“OK. I just don’t want the papers to keep on coming.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t want them to block up the hallway downstairs. It might upset the neighbors.”
“Well, Mr. Gadfly, I can certainly contact my supervisor.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem, Mr. Gadfly.”
“Thanks.”
No sound.
“Mr. Gadfly?”
“Yes?”
“Would it be inappropriate of me to ask you a rather personal question, sir?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Well, what are you doing these days?”
No sound. Then:
“Not much, really.”
“Because I’ve heard some things …”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’ve heard, that, well, you had some sort of … well … episode.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And, well, if that’s the case – and I don’t know that it is, I’m just saying – I just want to say that my prayers are with you, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, they are, sir. I believe that you’re a good man. Nobody could put words together in the way you do without being a good person down deep. That might sound naive, but I firmly believe it’s true. I know it’s not my place to say, but I just want to tell you that I’ve been praying for you.”
“You have?”
“Yes. That’s why I think it’s so weird that I’m the one who picked up your call. Most of the people here don’t even read The Eagle and don’t have any idea who writes for the paper. But I like good writing. And you were the best, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I don’t mind it at all. Thank you.”
Nothing. Then:
“What did you say your name was, again?”
“Sara. Sara Gutkin.”
“Thank you, Sara. That’s very nice of you to say.”
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t the truth. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt this way, but sometimes, when I’m reading the words of certain people, I just feel like I know them. Like I know who they are. Like their words have some sort of heavy imprint that was already pressed on my brain, so that it feels like I could’ve written the words myself, like I had the words all along, maybe in another lifetime. Of course, I’m not that talented. The words just feel familiar, but in an exciting way, you know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Oh, it’s silly, I know. I felt that way when I read a book called The Awakening. Do you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, of course you do. After I read that book, I just felt like smiling. I know it’s got a depressing ending and I shouldn’t have felt that way. But I couldn’t help it. It just made me feel so happy to know that sometimes people feel desperate, that I’m not the only one. Not that I feel like that all the time. Don’t get me wrong. Usually I’m pretty happy. And I don’t want to drown myself, or anything like that. But just sometimes it’s nice to know that people feel the same way you do. Does that make sense to you, Mr. Gadfly?”
“Yes. It does”
“Of course it does. What a silly question for me to ask. You’re a great writer. You must feel all sorts of things that I can only imagine about. And I know you only wrote a kind of gossip column – no offense or anything – but I felt the same way about you. Mostly it was the way you put words together. I remember one time you were at some movie premiere or fashion show and you were talking about Gwyneth Paltrow. You said she gave off a ‘glassy nihilism.’ Ha! Imagine that! I would never have thought to put those two words together. But it was so right, you know?”
“Thank you, Sara.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Gadfly.”
“Call me William, please.”
“OK. William.”
“Sara?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 22.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes. Three years, now. I have a little boy, too. His name is Steven.”
“That’s a nice name.”
“I think so too. It’s a common one. But I like it.”
“Me too.”
Nothing. Then:
“Well, I better get going, Mr. Gadfly.”
“OK.”
“I’m supposed to ask if there’s anything else I can help you with today.”
“No. You’ve been a big help.”
“Thanks. And I promise I’ll talk to my supervisor. Usually, when somebody leaves the paper, they just stop sending your complimentary subscription. Someone in corporate must really like you. Either that, or it’s just an oversight.”
“Probably just an oversight.”
“Probably. OK, Mr. Gadfly. I mean, William. Thanks for talking to me for a little while. I’m glad I got a chance to talk to you before you leave town. Hey, where are you headed to, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I haven’t really decided yet.”
“Well, that’s OK. I guess they need good writers everywhere, so you should be OK. And don’t take it the wrong way that I said I pray for you, OK? I pray for a lot of people. It doesn’t mean you need it. But it’s always nice to have a little extra help in your corner, don’t you think?”
“I think that must be true.”
“Good. Well, goodbye, Mr. Gadfly.”
“Goodbye, Sara.”
“’Til we meet again.”
Sara laughed a nervous little gurgle before hanging up. Gadfly kept the receiver to his ear until the sound reset and he could hear the settled hum of the dial tone. Then he placed the receiver back into its cradle. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
A few moments later he was walking back into his bedroom, selecting which clothes he wanted to bring with him. It would only be one outfit, the one he decided to wear. There would be no other encumbrances. He had never been a very concerned dresser. His indifference had incensed Maria, who would often make him change several times before they left for a social engagement. Finally, she got fed up. One Saturday, when he had been out by himself, he got home to find his closet had been arranged so that each hanger held an entire outfit, each of which she deemed acceptable for various types of occasions. Shirt, pants, socks too, and a paper-clipped note about which shoes she considered appropriate. No more sartorial decisions for William Gadfly. Just grab a hanger and step right in. He was simultaneously annoyed and grateful. He went along with it.
When he finally decided on something to wear – jeans, long-sleeve black button-down with collar, brown loafers – he laid the articles out on the bed and went to his underwear drawer. He was aware that his behind was clearly visible through the bedroom window. He thought about the little girl across the street. He wasn’t sure what time she left for school. Probably earlier than this. Her name was Nel. He knew her from the walks he used to take to Central Park. He didn’t care if she could see him naked. He wouldn’t have minded it. It had been a while since he’d spoken to Nel. He dressed himself slowly.
When Gadfly emerged from his bedroom, shirt tucked in, he felt comfortable with the way he looked. He then went to the cupboard, grabbed an extra large garbage bag and opened the refrigerator door. He began scooping the few items scattered inside – among them a Tupperware of leftover lemon chicken, a full bottle of ranch dressing, a nearly-empty carton of milk, a can of Diet Pepsi, an unopened package of Oscar Mayer hot dogs – into the bag. He did the same thing with the freezer before slinging the bag over his shoulder. When he was ready to leave, he had only the bag of food, the clothes he was wearing (including a lightweight, pullover windbreaker), his wallet, his keys (did he need them?), a black band digital watch on his left wrist and a green Capezio shoebox with a pair of size-eight bowling shoes that he’d been keeping at the bottom of his closet. He couldn’t remember how he’d managed to walk out of the alley with them. But he wanted to return them now and settle the issue once and for all, before he left town for good.
He walked through the kitchen without hesitation and didn’t bother to take a last look around. He’d been able to move the body enough so that he did not have to address it before he left. He closed the door, locked it and exited the apartment. He stopped at the incinerator to toss away the food. As he walked down the stairs of the apartment, it was just before ten o’clock.
Everything was still right on schedule.
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